


according to your heart (my place is not deliberate)

by jmcats



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Anal Sex, Coming Out, First Time, M/M, OT5 Friendship, Self-Acceptance, Volleyball AU, an ode to great music, hardcore OT5 feels, slight reference to racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2015-04-12
Packaged: 2018-03-22 14:29:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 65,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3732334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jmcats/pseuds/jmcats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The fading light brings the world into prospective – the team standing shoulder to shoulder, halfway buzzed on alcohol and cigarettes, grinning goofily at the sky.  His boys nudged hip to hip with him and he couldn’t think of another place to be.</i>
</p><p>(or: a university-volleyball au in which Zayn hates the game but he does it for a scholarship.  And for Louis.  And possibly for the new freshman setter who keeps teaching Zayn new things.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	according to your heart (my place is not deliberate)

**Author's Note:**

> This is one huge, unexpected fic about university, volleyball, two boys learning about themselves and a big need in my bones to write something very OT5'ish. It came from a silly idea I had a few months ago ([x](http://jmcats.tumblr.com/post/111155286478/instead-of-doing-what-i-was-supposed-to-be-doing)). Big love to all of the people who messaged me encouraging me to write this because it was such a fun thing to put together.
> 
> Huge love and kisses to [Ashley](http://mohawkpayne.tumblr.com) for the graphic and for looking this over! And thanks to [shan](http://leatherpayno.tumblr.com/) for finding that Zayn/Liam lookalike that inspired one of the scenes too.
> 
> WARNING: There's quite a bit of profanity in this. And there's a small reference to racism. Some self-discovery stuff, coming out, kinky sex, etc. I am aware of the differences in United States volleyball rules and European rules but I altered things a bit to fit the fic. I'm also aware my descriptions of Cambridge are a bit different from reality but that's the beauty of fiction!
> 
> Title taken from "fallingforyou" by the 1975 x

 

 

 

 

Early morning sun strikes against his eyelids in this fiery tangerine hue, there’s an incessant pounding at his door, that feeling of being midway through a dream and there’s one thing he’s certain of – Zayn is going to be in a right mood today.

His eyes blink open to threads of day-glow light shoving at his curtains, shiny copper rays burning his retinas. He shoves his nose into his pillow to drown out the scent of stale university room and leftover ashes from last night’s cigarette. The thumping at the door continues, louder, urgent.

Zayn’s groan is muffled by cotton and he rolls over to stretch, to scrub the heel of his palms over his eyelids before kicking out of a tangle of cheap sheets. Dull fingernails scratch at his belly and he half remembers where he left his shirt (somewhere near the windowsill where he spent an hour huffing through Marlboro Reds and reading Kissinger) before shrugging into it, patting down his morning wood while stumbling to the door.

It’s late into August and his university hall has been mostly quiet all summer. Just a handful of lads sticking around for extra courses or to bullshit away from the heat and useless family time back home. Nothing but a few dull months in the shade of Cambridge’s willowy trees and some shit university city that reminds Zayn nothing of Bradford.

It’s nothing like a home he thinks he barely left last year.

Alex Turner is humming a tune on low from his clock radio and Zayn absolutely hates morning.

He hates the thought of being up before noon.

He hates yawning on the way to the door, his inky hair half in his eyes, his reflexes still too slow to circulate the blood to his limbs as he moves.

Zayn clears his throat and gives one last long stretch, huffing at the aggravated thumps from the door and he hears the soft _‘I’m not the kind of fool who’s going to sit and sing to you about stars girl’_ before –

“Open the damn door Malik! I c’n hear your horrible breathing out here!”

A half of a smile twitches over Zayn’s mouth and he yanks the door open with a little resistance.

“Fuck off,” he mumbles, leaning in the doorway, “s’too early for you.”

“Fuck right,” Louis grins, all seawater blue eyes with a sharp smirk. Thick, unruly fringe is shoved behind a headband and there’s a new rush of scruff all along his chin and cheeks.

Zayn sighs out a wider smile, blinking the sleep out of his eyes.

“You look like shit,” he smiles with half-lidded eyes.

“So do you,” Louis mocks, mirroring Zayn’s grin. “What’ve you done to your hair, mate?”

(Zayn unconsciously brushes the hair out of his eyes, fingers dragging over the buzzed sides, this need under his skin to tie it all up into a top knot like he usually wears.)

“What’s going on with your ink?” Zayn scoffs, waving at Louis’ bare arms..

Louis flips him off with a cackle, licking his lips. Zayn scrunches his nose to hold in his own laugh.

“Missed me?” Louis asks, half-teasing.

“Nope.”

“Fucking bullshit,” Louis laughs, patting Zayn’s shoulder before hip-checking him out of the way, sprinting towards Zayn’s bed before high jumping onto it like a professional Olympian.

Zayn groans, scrubbing a hand down his face before knocking the door closed with his hip.

“C’mon buttercup,” Louis swoons, patting an empty space next to him, “tell me all about your lonely summer without me.”

“Wasn’t lonely,” Zayn sighs but he automatically staggers to the bed, flopping down next to Louis. “It was _quiet_.”

“Dull,” Louis amends.

“Thought-provoking,” Zayn counters, grinning up at the ceiling.

“Learned that from one of your bland textbooks, bro?”

“It was chill,” Zayn shrugs, ignoring Louis.

“Does that mean you had plenty of time to pull one off with no one to bother you?” Louis sneers.

Zayn gives him a playful shove, shaking his head. “You’re bloody rank, dude.”

“And you love me,” Louis hums.

(And – well that part is _true_. But Zayn refuses to admit that out loud. He denies it with every breath because, well, Louis has enough ego on his own.

Louis doesn’t need Zayn’s assistance, not one bit.)

“S’that time of year again,” Louis grins, all of his features blurred and soft in Zayn’s peripheral.

“No.”

Louis laughs, rolling onto his back to next Zayn. He’s wearing trackie bottoms with the ends stuffed into his dumb socks and an old university shirt, worn and faded, and his skin is a smooth tan scarred by new ink.

All of these various pieces of artwork he didn’t have a few months ago before he left for the summer break. After the season ended, after he spent a month sulking around campus and brooding to indie rock because their team lost.

For the third year since Louis started his term at Cambridge.

(It’s like he inked his skin to scratch away the pain and bury all of the scars from tumbling all over the court just for a win.

Just for a small victory and to prove himself. To be the volleyball player he’s dreamt about since he was some scrawny thirteen year old with a dodgy haircut and one goal: being better than Santos.)

“C’mon Zaynie,” Louis smirks.

Zayn rolls his eyes, biting at his chapped bottom lip, shaking his head.

“Still too early.”

“But practices start in two weeks, mate. And summer training already started up. You missed – “

“I know,” Zayn snorts, flicking his eyes shut. “On purpose.”

“Asshole,” Louis chuckles lowly, under the deep hum of Turner’s voice and the _‘fingers dimming the lights like you’re used to being told that you’re trouble’_ in the background. “You’re out of shape.”

“And you’re a dick,” Zayn groans, blindly poking at the spaces between Louis’ ribs.

“C’mon Zayner,” Louis huffs, patting his thigh. “We’ve not got much time to get you in gear. Big year f’r you, yeah? Second year on the team. You get to give all of the freshers shit this time.”

“Like you and Andy did t’ me last year?” Zayn wonders.

He peeks an eye open to see Louis’ put upon frown, the way he crosses his arms like a child, pouting.

“Don’t be rude.”

“You lot stole me pants and made me free-ball for the first four games,” Zayn reminds him.

“Your bullocks needed to _breathe_ ,” Louis sings.

“Flooded me trainers with Gatorade,” Zayn adds.

“Made you quicker.”

“Locked me out of the practice gym in nothing but a jockey while the girls’ glee club was passing by and – “

“Are you quite finished?” Louis huffs and Zayn’s lips stretch into a massive smile because –

Well, yeah, he is actually.

“Doesn’t matter,” Louis sighs, elbowing Zayn. “You’re a second-year. Big time, man. Maybe you’ll play a few more games this time?”

Zayn doubts it. And honestly, he doesn’t really mind.

(He knows why he’s at Cambridge – a few years of playing _decently_ on his high school volleyball team got him a hefty scholarship. Just enough funds where his parents wouldn’t have to struggle to assist with his schooling.

A way out.

A chance to get out of Bradford and that shit living so he could study literature. Just so he could float weightlessly in his own dreams but with this inescapable cost: he had to make the university team.

He had to continue to play a sport he only half enjoyed now.

Some of the time. When he’s not losing.)

“Maybe,” he mumbles, chewing on his lower lip.

“Definitely,” Louis cheers, nuzzling his nose into Zayn’s cheek and a short, helpless laugh escapes Zayn’s lungs because Louis is only ever this affectionate with him.

When no one is watching because Louis is a right twat in front of others. An asshole when he wants to be. It’s what makes him so amazing on the court – he’s aggressive. He’s a fighter.

Louis always has something to prove.

“Without Olly or Nick, you’ve got a shot,” Louis beams, shoving the weight of his smile into Zayn’s cheek.

Zayn shrugs, fluttering his eyes shut again, hating the pulse of the still early sun on his face.

“We’ve still got Andy on the outside,” he mentions, a carelessness in his voice that he’s not very good at hiding from Louis. “Danny too.”

“They’re shit,” Louis grumbles and Zayn pretends not to wince because Danny is –

Zayn tries not to think about it.

Instead, he sinks into soft breaths and nearly falls back to sleep like this – cuddled on a lumpy university bed with his best mate snuggled to his side, the last of the summer dying off like a half-smoked spliff – it’s nothing but the ash of quieter moments.

“You’re stalling, bro.”

“M’not,” Zayn argues unenthusiastically, yawning. “’m going back t’ sleep.”

“Not on me watch,” Louis huffs and he’s yanking at Zayn’s shirt, pinching the marked skin of his forearm. “It’s time for our morning run.”

Zayn frowns, squeezing his eyes tighter shut – it’s all a bad dream.

Louis and his adrenaline, the morning and its awful sunlight, the end of his peace and quiet.

“ _We_ don’t have a morning run,” Zayn admonishes, making a face. “You’ve got a morning run and a Starbucks stopover and you’re fucking annoying, Tommo.”

“And you’re joining me ‘cause you love me,” Louis insists. “Plus you look like shit and are unfit t’ be on me volleyball club, mate. As captain – “

Zayn grins absently because he _knows_ Louis has been savoring the flavor of that word on his tongue all summer. Ever since Olly and Nick graduated and, begrudgingly, passed the title over to Louis after last year’s shit season.

“ – you’re going to be right fit for my squad.”

“Your squad,” Zayn repeats, giggling.

Louis hums and nods and knocks an elbow to Zayn’s ribcage.

“Let’s go Malik.”

Zayn sighs out a frustrated breath. He shoves his hair out of his eyes and feels all of the sleep slowly start to seep from his bones, from his blood.

(He reckons he can appease Louis and still catch a kip afterwards, before he starts up on that unfinished novel he’s been putting off for weeks.)

“Least let me have a ciggy before we start up, yeah?” Zayn half-pleads.

“Horrible,” Louis smiles, rolling off the bed. “You’re an awful athlete and a bloody mockery of the Sporting Blue.”

Zayn chokes out a laugh and a cheeky grin. “’m not much of a sport, you twit.”

“Or a best mate,” Louis groans, kicking at Zayn’s ankle before stomping towards the door. “C’mon. I’ll buy you a pack and maybe you won’t _die_ before we make it t’ Starbucks before ten.”

_Ten?_

Fuck, Zayn honestly hates Louis and his bloody horrible mornings.

 

||

 

(And he’s out of breath before they make their first lap around campus, lungs afire and skin crawling with sweat and he swears under his breath every time Louis jogs a half a meter ahead of him but, unconsciously, Zayn has missed _this_ –

The ache in his bones and the spike of something sweet in his blood and the sting around his lungs and the throb in his muscles.

That sour taste of exhaustion from exerting himself too hard.

But he won’t tell Louis. He won’t say a damn thing about it.)

 

||

 

Louis slurps happily at a steaming cardboard cup of heady tea while the sun backlights everything sharp greens and stark blues. Zayn makes a face at him, sucking in a tight breath of hot smoke. He flicks the ash off his cigarette, leaning on his elbows over the table.

It’s some small Starbucks half the size of a university room and the early morning makes everything warm rather than that uncomfortable heat Zayn absolutely hates.

(He’s baggy jumpers and combat boots and ripped jeans any other season and the summer is – it’s _unbearable_.)

His lungs are still trying to catch up with the oxygen filtering through them when he asks, “How c’n you have tea after a run?”

Louis snorts and shoots him a mocking face. “How c’n you smoke after nearly _dying_ while running?”

Zayn flips him off with a crooked grin. “Keeps me calm,” he says, leaning back, taking another slow drag. He exhales the smoke through his nose, lifting his brow. “I feel less inclined to murder you when I smoke, mate.”

“Bullshit,” Louis chuckles into his tea. Another slurp, another satisfied smile. “Y’never want to murder me, bro.”

Zayn shoots him a doubtful look before swallowing another breath of smoke.

“Sign up for fall courses yet?” Zayn asks, knocking away more ash.

Louis hums an annoyed breath, half-cocking a tiny smirk behind his cup.

“Dreading it but yeah,” he sighs, rimming the mouth of his cup with a finger. “Got a bunch of shit early courses, bro. Dead of dawn shite. Last minute move after smoking a bowl and I was massively in need of a blowie so I couldn’t focus on sticking to me plan.”

Zayn flicks his eyes wide with a grin.

(Louis is always massively horny after getting high and just a bit too touchy-feely for Zayn but he gets it – summertime madness, he thinks. Louis is just another victim.)

“You?”

Zayn shrugs halfheartedly. “Yeah,” he breathes out, taking another puff. “Some pretty cool course studies, mate. Bunch of lit shit.”

“Bunch of lit shit,” Louis repeats, laughing softly. “Same old Zayner.”

Zayn swallows another laugh and nods because –

It’s all he’s ever been. He skips out on the maths and science-related stuff and always leans towards lit-based courses. Anything for amazing words and theoretical studies and challenging prose.

Anything that arouses his creativity.

“Can’t believe you actually stuck around this place the whole summer,” Louis mentions, a deep breath attached as he cocks his head back to feel the sun on his face.

Zayn gives a shrug even though Louis isn’t looking. His messy hair gets shoved sideways out of his face before he billows fuzzy rings of smoke from his mouth like a newborn dragon.

“Tryna earn a degree in art design too, mate,” he whispers in a scratchy voice. He clears the smoke from his throat with a horrible cough into his fist. “The only good courses were over the summer.”

“Sounds dreadful,” Louis preens, even if they’ve had this conversation a dozen times before June ever came and went. “You didn’t miss home?”

Zayn shrugs again, sniffing. “Not really.”

(It’s not a complete lie, even if he missed his mum’s warm scent and brilliant cooking. And his sisters’ laughs and the echo of footsteps down the hall from visiting cousins.

The strong pull of his father’s hug before bed.

The whispering sounds of the city – _his city_.)

“’Sides,” he huffs, chewing on his dry bottom lip, “mum brought Doniya up for a visit in July. Me abbu is proud of me f’r sticking it out. He won’t tell me he misses me.”

“But he does.”

“He does,” Zayn whispers, lowering his chin.

(That throb around his heart, a constant _thump-thump_ reminder, gets louder in his ears and he tries not to think about it.)

“Cheers,” Louis grins, reaching across the table to steal Zayn’s cigarette and snub it out on the paint-chipped metal. “Being home was bloody fantastic. Was like a long holiday. Like Christmas.”

Zayn snorts, tugging a fresh cigarette from his pack (ignoring the disappointed face Louis shoots him, too) before tucking it between his teeth.

“Didn’t miss ya,” Zayn teases, sparking a flame from his lighter. He sucks in the first long breath of new smoke and lets it coat his insides before exhaling.

“Bullshit,” Louis cackles. “Fucking bullshit, Zaynie, and y’know it.”

Zayn shrugs a little less casually and – yeah, it’s all fucking bullshit.

“At least tell me you had a few one-offs or got a proper shag over the summer,” Louis hums, his voice half-taunting, half-curious as he leans over the table.

Zayn sniffs and steals Louis’ tea, wrinkling his face at the taste

(because Louis is _offended_ by the thought of too much sugar in his tea and anything short of a strongly brewed cup untainted he’ll toss out)

before biting carefully at his lower lip. “No,” he replies flatly, unaffected by Louis’ wide eyes.

“You useless bastard,” Louis cackles and Zayn rolls his eyes.

“It’s not like I needed – “

“Oh, you _needed_ some,” Louis chokes out, still laughing. “You were so uptight on the court last year, man. I reckoned you’d at least shag it out of some poor bloke on campus for a few months or summat.”

Zayn’s shoulders go tight and he drops his chin because –

Well, okay, maybe he was a little nervous playing his freshman year on the team. Maybe he was a bit of a hothead and a little too aggressive. But it’s not because he hasn’t been laid in months.

 _Nine months_. Not that he’s keeping count.

Not that he even remembers the lad’s name that he shagged at some _‘welcome back’_ party his second term on campus.

(Just a nameless bloke with steel blue eyes and candy pink lips and too many cups of something blue with too much Gin at the bottom. In some musky room that smelled of soiled socks and cheap body spray, on wrinkled sheets with an arched spine, trembling thighs and that poor lad’s pornographic moans muffled into the pillowcase.)

Just a wasted memory hung out to dry after waking up with a massive hangover and a crinkled piece of paper with the boy’s number on it.

(He tossed it in the bin before stumbling all the way to the loo to wash the taste out of his mouth.)

“We can’t all have proper inappropriately bad romances like y’self, Lou,” Zayn says with a cocked up grin that Louis scrunches his face at. “How are things with El?”

“Massively over,” Louis shrugs like he doesn’t care but it’s just a surface wound, Zayn thinks.

Under all of the bravado, he thinks Louis has always been sort of hung up over Calder. Over the waifish figure and creamy skin and finger-twirling brown hair and that sweet lilt to her accent.

(but Louis never admits it and Zayn refuses to bother with questioning him about it)

“Again?” Zayn wonders, nicking the care from his voice.

Louis cocks his head back, mussed hair catching on the breeze, sweat sticking to his hairline.

“She’s off to France this term,” Louis replies, low and uninterested, his tongue brushing across his lips. “Fashion studies and shit. Just a little _c’est la vie_ I s’ppose.”

Zayn sucks in a shallow breath of smoke, tosses his cigarette to the pavement before stubbing it with the toe of his trainer. He lets out ghostly ring clouds, scratching at his temple.

“Just that, yeah?”

Louis nods slowly with a blank expression.

(And Zayn doesn’t bother because they don’t talk about things like that – mushy romances and love stories and things they hear about in the films.)

“Heard from Samuels there’s a bunch of brilliant freshers coming in,” Louis says, his voice charged the way it always gets when he’s trying to change the subject – when he’s trying to avoid his emotions.

Zayn lifts his brow with mild interest.

(It’s for Louis’ sake, they both know, but Zayn’s never been one not to humor Louis Tomlinson.)

“Good group, me thinks,” Louis continues, swallowing the last of his lukewarm tea. “Some lad outta Dublin, I hear. Sick defensive player. And some pretty green-eyed lad from Holmes Chapel. New middle.”

Zayn cocks an eyebrow at him, leaning back. “How d’you know he’s pretty?”

The edge of Louis’ mouth twitches high and Zayn groans softly into another gush of wind.

“Ran into him at the toilets the other day,” Louis sighs, brushing fringe out of his face. “He’s a bit clumsy. Knocked into me, looking pretty dumb. He said _‘oops’_ and I said _‘hi’_ and that’s about it.”

Zayn snorts, shaking his head. There’s something coy and a little too teasing in Louis’ eyes like –

Like if Louis had the opportunity, he _might_ –

No. Louis has rules.

(which might include avoiding shagging teammates after his freshman year and the Nick Incident, as the team calls it, even if Zayn’s still not sure what happened between the two of them)

“A new backup setter too,” Louis shrugs. “Heard coach really pushed hard to get ‘im here. Don’t know why. We’ve still got ol’ Stanley.”

Zayn lifts his eyebrows carelessly, picking at his nails, watching the sun flick translucent gold off of the edge of Louis’ face.

“Either way, great talent on the way, Zayner,” Louis announces, something electric and throbbing in his voice.

It’s the way he always gets seconds before a game, during warm-ups, with the crowd on its feet and the world at the tips of his fingers.

Zayn smirks, looking down. Something shy crawls into his throat (a memory, nostalgia) before he says, “’s the same speech you gave me last year when I started on the team.”

“And see how great we were!”

Zayn tips back, his smile shoving high with his eyes closed and his eyelashes fluttering high on his cheekbones. The sun stings orange across his eyelids while his tongue shoves at the back of his teeth.

“We lost fifteen matches last season, Lou.”

“But we didn’t lose ‘em all,” Louis grins and Zayn can hear it without seeing it.

“We only played twenty-two games, man. S’not exactly a brilliant season,” he licks out. “We were second worst in the division.”

“But not first!” Louis exclaims and it drags a rough, smoke-filled laugh from Zayn’s lungs while the breeze sweeps long threads of dark hair into his face.

He scoops it back, still grinning when he blinks at Louis. “We’re not any good, mate.”

Louis makes a face and flips him off. “S’my last year, bro,” he says in that telling voice that Zayn tries not to cringe at, “and we’re gonna win. We’ll do better this year. We’re gonna crush ‘em all, mate.”

Zayn bites the edge of his ruddy lower lip before giving Louis a small nod. There’s enough conviction in Louis’ voice that he almost, almost believes him –

 _Almost_.

He leans onto the table, elbows pressing down, his smile going jagged and crooked while he flutters his eyelashes.

“You’re gonna miss Nick being out there, right?”

“Piss off,” Louis chuckles, reaching over to knock a playful hand to the back of Zayn’s head. “Hope that twat is enjoying his miserable life in London and may he have’ta eat out of the bin for the rest of his life. He’s trash, dude.”

“So you’ll miss him?” Zayn laughs, his lips spread wide into an amusing grin.

Louis rolls his eyes before muttering, “A tiny bit.”

Zayn slouches down into his chair, burying half of his laugh into his shoulder, hauling in a deep breath of clean air. The clouds, high above their heads, roll like cottony dust balls, overshadowed by the massive ocean of a sky. Everything feels a little warm but tolerable and Zayn thinks of sparking another cigarette but decides against it.

The season’s starting and he’s going to kick the habit one day.

Someday, he thinks, but not today.

Maybe just three a day. Five ( _seven_ ) during mid-terms. Or after a bad game. Or because he can’t find his favorite jumper or his lucky felt-tip pen.

(or just because he hasn’t found enough reasons not to, he supposes)

“Don’t forget the first frat party of the term is Friday,” Louis says, thoughtful and a little too happy. “Last chance to go on a proper bender and get massively smashed.”

Zayn snorts into the crook of his elbow.

(it’s another love of Louis’: volleyball and a bloody brilliant party)

Louis shoots him a warning look with narrow eyes and a tight jaw. “You better show up, Malik,” he hisses, reaching over the table to pinch Zayn’s shoulder until he whines defenselessly. “Can’t be getting wrecked without you.”

Zayn rolls his eyes, leaning away from Louis’ fingers.

“You just wan’ someone to keep an eye out while you’re boning some pissed off their arse drama student or summat,” he counters.

Louis gives a reckless shrug. “True,” he says without hesitance.

Zayn tips his head back to bark out a laugh and, alright, he might’ve missed Louis Tomlinson.

(but only _slightly_ , he swears)

 

||

 

Zayn can feel it from the doorway of this decades’ old, shabby fraternity house at the rim of campus. There’s some bass-heavy Haim song rattling from the speakers, shaking the floorboards under his heavy boots. He can taste the cheap alcohol when his tongue brushes out to lick the dryness from his lips. It’s mostly dark outside (and inside the house too) and the shivering anticipation starts to mold around his bones before he properly walks in –

Despite him wanting to spend a Friday night kipping on his bed, watching _Days of Future Past_ for the fifth time, this is what he needs –

A party and a few red cups of something gross to coat his cells and a nameless lad sucking him off and that itch of carelessness at the edge of summer.

(and Zayn hates that Louis might be right and he swears, repeatedly, he’ll never tell him)

The corners of his mouth quirk instantly and the heat of the party billows down into his loosely buttoned, thread-thin plaid shirt. There’s already a cigarette shoved behind his ear (a safety net in case he’s too bored, too uninterested in this university bunch to bother with a way out of another dull conversation) and his hair is tugged back into a tight knot on top of his head. His shredded jeans hang off his hips, the scent of sex and sugary drinks high in the air before he nudges his way in.

He doesn’t have to put up much an effort to find Louis – always at the heart of the crowd, always the neon star in a dark, dark galaxy.

Zayn shoves through the dense crowd that’s spilling out of every door of the house, into the green, green grass and along the fencing. He nicks a fresh red cup from some kid too young to be a first-year and nudges all the way up to Louis, greeting him with a sharp nod that Louis returns.

He barely recognizes the music changing, the deep croon of Drake and a throb of _‘I better find your loving I better find your heart’_ all around him as he takes a large swallow of something sour like green apples and too much whiskey.

“You made it,” Louis says with a sharp laugh when Zayn’s eyes water up.

Zayn gasps a cough, wrinkling his nose at the drink. He drags a lazy stare in Louis’ direction, shrugging. “You threated to burn my Incredible Hulk collection.”

“Because he’s useless and has nothing on Peter Parker,” Louis swears and they share a secret smile no one else in the room will ever understand.

“Pathetic,” Zayn grins. He takes another swallow, wheezing. “Doesn’t seem worth coming out for, mate.”

Louis knocks back a drink of his own that stains his smile pink and sugary. “Bullshit,” he snorts, elbowing Zayn. “Absolute bullshit, you tit.”

They’re wedged tightly between a line of gawking freshers and a roomful of grinding bodies, everyone a little buzzed and lightheaded. Alcohol dumped from cup to cup until there’s a graveyard of empty red solos mapping the way to the kitchen. It’s almost as if electricity has replaced the blood in their veins, adrenaline synthesized in their organs.

And Zayn has to admit it – he’s a bit in love with it all.

“That’s him,” Louis says over the music, jerking his chin to a boy halfway across the room. “The first-year blocker. Styles, I heard from some of the lads.”

Zayn blinks away from his cup (and he’s already feeling a little tingling in his nerves, which is nice, honestly) to the heart of the crowd.

He’s got the height Zayn expects with loose curls habitually falling in his face (and a different hand constantly scooping the hair back) and milky skin scratched up by silly ink, pulling faces like a Disney character every few beats. There’s a semi-circle around him while he tells a story with this loud, dragging voice and cherry lips that make his eyes look like a bed of clovers. His shirt is barely buttoned with stupid flamingos on it and skinnies and the sort of dimples you can’t look away from.

Zayn hums like he’s impressed (even if he’s truthfully not) before taking another regrettable sip of his drink.

(the taste is starting to dull, which means either he’s halfway to being pissed or he’s too busy glaring at this boy to notice)

“Wonder if he’s any good?” Louis whisper-shouts, leaning into Zayn.

Zayn shoulders him, sighing. “Who cares?”

“I do,” Louis pouts, wrinkling his brow. “I mean, ‘m the captain, ‘member?”

Zayn scoffs a laugh and nods just for the proud smile Louis flashes him.

“There’s something about him,” Louis mumbles into his drink with peering eyes directed at the boy.

“He’s tall?” Zayn offers.

“Nope,” Louis replies, sounding out the word. “More like he has a big dick or something. He just looks hung up, y’know?”

“Fuck Tommo,” Zayn groans, looking away. “You’re mad, bro.”

Louis shrugs helplessly, draining his drink in one breath. “Just an observation.”

“No shagging teammates, remember?” Zayn teases.

“Wouldn’t think it,” Louis says dryly. “Well, not twice.”

Zayn laughs into Louis’ hair, letting the alcohol soak all of his nerves until he’s sweaty and dreamy all at once. “You’re a terrible friend t’ have,” he mutters against the shell of Louis’ ear and he forces himself to ignore the preening smile Louis beams at him afterwards.

“Another drink?” Louis offers, raising his empty cup to knock against Zayn’s.

Zayn sniffs and gives a halfhearted one-shouldered shrug, cocking his head back.

“To one last fuck of a night before the season starts, bro?” he teases.

“One last fuck of a night,” Louis agrees, curling an arm around Zayn’s spine and dragging him towards the already too crowded kitchen deep in the house.

 

||

 

Zayn loses Louis somewhere between Jell-O shots in the kitchen and a massive round of beer pong in the basement. He sneaks a Foster’s from the fridge, bites down on his smile when he spots Harry grinding shirtless against some bloke with red hair and freckles with a wolfish grin and knocks his way through the crowd to the backyard.

He slides a fresh cigarette between his soft lips, smirking at the scene below the outside balcony –

It’s a battlefield of bodies scattered over the trimmed lawn. Stumbling university students with their cans of beers, a couple snogging against a tree, a city of empty bottles and half-pissed kids laughing at the moon high above their heads. Everything is silver and blue and sharp greens from here and Zayn loves it.

He feels alive after his first breath of night air and stinging cigarette smoke.

(It feels like glitter in his lungs and crystals on his tongue from the beer and _euphoria_ – it’s the only word that fits properly in his mouth.)

Zayn tips his head back to exhale a steady stream of smoke, everything in his head buoyant and fuzzy, the lights of the night like bashful stars against his retinas. He’s taking a casual drag from his cigarette, knocking off the ash when a shoulder nudges clumsily into his and –

“Wow. Fuck, I mean – _wow_.”

Zayn cocks up an eyebrow with a mouthful of smoke, tilting his head to stare at the boy next to him.

(and he’s not meant to look at him this long but – _wow_ , indeed.)

He’s nothing but round cheeks pinked from the alcohol, probably, with large eyes and laughter lines around the edges. There’s a snapback twisted messily over his buzz cut and a tight plain t-shirt over smooth, etched muscle. Soft skin like milky ochre and this boy has a mouth made of candy – sugary pink and cherry red where he’s chewed on it too much. There’s stark ink, bold and sharp, running under a forearm and low-hanging jeans with scuffed Converse on his feet.

(He’s a bit sporty and accidentally frat-like without the noisy aura and asshole smile Zayn usually attaches to the resident university party lads.)

And those eyes – dark coffee with a hint of cream – crinkle gently when he looks at Zayn and his mouth goes soft, happy when Zayn blinks at him.

“Excuse me?” Zayn says with a little too much constriction around his words (and not because he’s already so fascinated with this bloke, but, well).

The boy shrugs when he laughs, raising a half-finished Boddingtons to the night like Zayn’s meant to understand.

“This place,” he sighs, still giggling, glancing around, “It’s quite – _wow_ , right? I mean, I sound daft don’t I? Like a proper newbie or summat?”

Zayn chuckles – he can’t quite help himself. He shrugs casually, leaning over the railing, taking another calm drag.

“S’ppose you do,” he says, his tone careless but his smile gives him away.

He watches the ash from his cigarette catch on the wind – grey snowflakes circling upward. He sniffs and all of the heat from the alcohol in his system feels like a bonfire crackling all over his blood.

“Shit,” the boy swears lowly, leaning up next to Zayn, their shoulders touching in this little accidental way that makes Zayn think this boy is unaware of their proximity.

(or he’s so pissed that the _fuck it all_ in his blood has started to leak through)

“Think anyone else has noticed?”

Zayn’s laugh turns into a cough, the smoke fuzzing everything out, shifting his head enough that he can see the way the night blurs the edges of this boy’s already soft features.

“Probably so.”

“Yeah,” the boy breathes, swirling his beer around with thick fingers. “Didn’t mean t’ come off that way though.”

“S’cool,” Zayn grins and he’s still not sure why.

He’s not fond of strangers, especially not chatty ones. The ones that won’t leave him be. Foreign faces and generic conversations. He’s just never been into it.

(But under his blood and over his bones, he likes this boy. Likes him enough that the _‘one last fuck of a night’_ he and Louis had shouted earlier seems just perfect.

_One last fuck._

One more nameless face to get off to before he starts up another year of dense textbooks and highlighter-stained fingertips.)

“Fresher?” Zayn wonders, even if it’s apparent.

Zayn’s never seen this bloke around the town. He thinks, absently, he’d remember eyes like that or a laugh that bright or a jaw that’s sharp, stubbed with hints of scruff. He thinks this boy looks a bit younger than him, not much, and he’s wearing that _‘shiny and new’_ look Zayn remembers once having – just at the start of last year.

The boy hums, ducking his head. “Do I look it?”

Zayn shrugs haphazardly, lips going crooked into a smile.

“Tiny bit, mate,” he replies, pressing his elbow into the boy’s for a reaction.

(Something tight, hot like a supernova spikes under his skin when the boy nudges back.)

(It’s a _‘yes’_ to questions Zayn hasn’t asked yet and he smiles at that.)

“First year. Didn’t think I’d even make it in. Got lucky with a sports scholarship,” the boy says, his voice shy and nervy.

Zayn nods along, chasing his next drag with a swallow of his own beer. This boy looks like a sport – football, probably. He has the build, the obvious strength behind his legs, nice hands like a goalie maybe.

“A bit intimidating, innit?” Zayn asks, blinking down at the shipwreck of bodies scattered across the lawn – too pissed to move, hiccupping laughs over the music still shaking the windows of the house.

“You?” the boy says with a sharp breath.

Zayn laughs, the noise echoing against the night. He knocks his shoulder with the boy’s and rolls his eyes.

“No, no. The _school_ , man. This place. The whole Cambridge thing,” Zayn grins, his lips tipping sideways when a flood of blush prickles up along the boy’s cheeks.

“Yeah, I mean, I s’ppose,” he shrugs back, keeping his chin low. “My parents are awfully proud and stuff. ‘m just, like. It’s _mad_ , I guess. Like I’ve finally proper accomplished something which is, like – I still sound daft, yeah?”

Zayn grins back, leaning into him. “Nope. A bit like a fresher though,” he replies just for the heated crimson that strikes up over round cheeks, crawling down his neck and under his collar. “But it’s cool, mate. I know.”

The boy nods slowly, wrapping full lips around the bottle and Zayn stares long enough to imagine how pretty those lips would be around the tip of his cock. The softness and the stretch and – fuck.

“’m Zayn,” he offers, flicking away his cigarette to stretch out his hand.

“Oh,” the boy chokes out, dragging the condensation from his bottle along his jeans before wrapping thick fingers around Zayn’s hand (a warm hand with a soft palm and hot fingertips – _like a goalie_ , Zayn thinks) for a quick shake. “Liam. Um, my mates back home call me Payno or Leemo or, well – “

“ _Leeyum_ ,” Zayn says with a frayed smile, chuckling when Liam ducks his head again. “Liam is good.”

Liam nods back, fingers lingering around Zayn’s hand, his thumb dragging over Zayn’s knuckles. The embarrassingly abashed look Liam shoots Zayn – like he’s been _caught_ – drags another rough laugh from Zayn’s throat and their hands drop away a bit reluctantly.

(And Zayn wonders, for half a minute, if maybe Liam wanted to hold on a little longer and if maybe this _‘one last fuck of a night’_ seems a bit too easy with this boy.)

Instead of overthinking, Zayn half-turns and lets the alcohol strum through his system while Liam blinks nervously up at the sky. The world around them is noisy but it feels like that gentle silence you find on a beach at night – just lapping waves and the screaming sky. The tail of the moon whipping silver everywhere and their shoulders pressed together.

There’s lightning between every part of them that’s not touching and Zayn feels so fucking _turned on_ by the –

The twist of a lower lip between white teeth when Liam tries to take stealthy looks at Zayn. The large hand wrapped around a beer bottle, squeezing like the glass will crack under the pressure. Earthy brown eyes that keep looking down at their wrists grazing over the rail. Strong, wide shoulders that lift for a hiccup or a laugh.

Zayn thinks it’s like a freight train and he’s waiting to run headfirst into it.

“Do you wanna talk?” Zayn asks, low and deep with a smile. “Or – “

“Or?” Liam repeats, brightening up.

Zayn chuckles into his shoulder, raising his brow. “Or we could, like. Y’know?”

“Um,” Liam pauses, chewing his lip a candy red, shoulders raising. “Do you mean, like?”

Zayn rolls his eyes, grinning, cocking his hip until it knocks against Liam’s.

“Lads or birds, Leeyum?” he asks with a purposeful forearm pressed against the one Liam has on the railing.

Liam swallows audibly, cheeks going fiery pink, eyes dropping away.

“A bit forward, innit?”

Zayn shrugs and leans away just enough – just to test Liam out. He bites on his smile when Liam chases him, shoving their shoulders back together and rubbing his forearm along Zayn’s.

“Lads,” he stumbles out, under his breath, with lowered eyes. “I’m into – I like lads, alright?”

Zayn flutters his eyelashes for a moment before easing in, his breath ghosting Liam’s cheek, chapped lips catching just above an earlobe. He smiles and waits to feel Liam’s pulse pick up along his wrist before he whispers, “Good. Me too. Definitely, mate.”

He feels Liam’s flush before he sees it and he abandons his beer on the railing to skim fingers along Liam’s hip.

There’s no one really watching them and Zayn could shove Liam into the shadows (or under the moon for anyone to watch) and peel his zip down to wank him off right here but –

“ _So_ ,” Zayn smirks, letting his lips brush along Liam’s ear, “we could, like. Maybe upstairs?”

Liam’s breath shakes and there’s so much tension under that tan skin but it flutters away when Liam turns his head enough that their noses brush together.

“Yeah,” he exhales, a curvy smile and lips nearly grazing Zayn’s between the spaces. “We could, like. _Upstairs_ , mate. Definitely.”

Zayn chuckles, nicotine on his breath and a thumb hooking into a belt loop and this boy’s adrenaline intoxicating Zayn.

(He feels fucking blissed out and already on the verge and its fucking mad is what it is but Zayn wants to drown in it.)

 _One last fuck of a night_ , he thinks, twisting his fingers with Liam’s before leading him back inside.

 

||

 

Zayn doesn’t bother with the lights when they stumble into some frat kid’s room. Something is radiating in his pulse, a whisper-loud thump behind his ribs after they’ve shoved through the crowd to climb the stairs two at a time.

After he’s thrown Louis a knowing glance over his shoulder when their eyes meet in the foyer, Louis too buzzed on shots and dumb conversations to do anything but grin back at Zayn as he drags Liam along.

The room stinks of filthy socks and bad cologne and leftover pepperoni pizza but Zayn ignores all of it when Liam knocks him into the door with strong arms and hands pressed to the wood on either side of Zayn’s head.

There’s a lazy, shy smile on Liam’s lips, his cheeks still flushed and haphazardly pink, his eyes half-lidded but even in the shadows Zayn can see how dark they’ve gotten. Black stars instead of warm coffee. His snapback is half-knocked on his head and he shuffles in to press his body along Zayn’s on the door.

“Is this – I mean,” Liam sighs, eyes fixed on Zayn’s mouth, his pulse a little louder than the thudding music outside of the room. “This is what you wanted, yeah?”

“No,” Zayn says with a dull tone. His fingers grip at Liam’s hips and he loves the half-shocked look Liam gives him when he shoves their hips together. “Wanted you kiss me by now, mate.”

Liam looks flustered and there’s a choked laugh at the back of his throat before he bites down on his lips, licking the soreness away.

Even in the shadows, with the moon tipping through sheer curtains, this boy shines like a summer sun.

Like the core of a star seconds from erupting.

It’s a bit tragic and beautiful at the same time. Zayn exhales a heavy breath before grinding up against Liam in a dirty, offbeat way.

Liam shudders out a moan and Zayn smirks, tipping his head back.

“Gonna snog me, mate?”

Liam swallows, a copper-splattered birthmark shifting with his throat muscles.

“Should I?”

“Would seem like a proper idea,” Zayn teases, hitching his hips enough for Liam to feel his half-stiffy through his jeans.

Through the door, muffled, Zayn can hear the _‘cause you’re a good girl and you know it you act so different around me’_ and his lips raise when Liam ducks in, their noses nuzzling as they share shallow breaths.

“I’ve never, like,” Liam huffs. “This is my – _shit_. I’m bad at this.”

(Zayn’s heart thuds a little too loudly at that – a _first_. He’s been on his fair share of enough first kisses and playful virgins and dirtying up someone’s shiny appearance but – it feels different here.

With this boy.

With a hand cupping the back of a buzz cut and his hips pressing up against Liam’s.

Suddenly, he wants it slow and memorable and he sort of wants to give this boy something to remember for the next bloke – the one that won’t be Zayn and will be a little less careless and the lad that will want Liam for more than a drunken hookup.

The sort of boy you fall in love with – not the one you just get off with.)

“Hey,” Zayn murmurs, smiling. His hand eases up Liam’s ribs, dragging his shirt with it, calming touches that Liam presses into. “Slow, mate, alright? Do what y’want. ‘m not bothered by it.”

Liam nods slowly, inching back in, tilting his head.

He’s the right height that Zayn has to press onto the tips of his toes and Liam is a little awkward when he crowds Zayn up against the door.

Liam’s kisses taste like sugar and beer. He’s unrelenting the moment he brushes his mouth along Zayn’s – openmouthed and with his determination Zayn craves. Careful bites along Zayn’s lower lip and a slick tongue that flicks over Zayn’s teeth. His lips are soft and pliable and they slide wetly over Zayn’s until Zayn swears he’s in the middle of a desert –

He’s helpless and itching for saturation and hopeless all at once.

(It’s bloody fantastic and he just leans into the kiss like he wants Liam to take control.

Like he _trusts_ – no. He doesn’t know this boy and he’s just some fuck off; he’s not a permanent mark.)

They replace breaths with sweet moans, chasing each kiss with a nip or a tongue. He feels neon under Liam’s hands – one attached to Zayn’s hip, another carding through the thick hair at the top of Zayn’s head and over the buzzed sides. Their hips collide repeatedly and Zayn wants to fumble a hand between them just to feel the shape of Liam’s cock.

He wants to trace along it until he can map out the thickness and brush along the wet denim with the tips of his fingers.

Zayn swallows around a groan when the angle changes intermediately. It feels – just so fucking _incredible_.

Liam is visibly nervous and untrained but his kisses keep feeling like the start of all of Zayn’s favorite tunes – the chords and the tempo and those lyrics that bleed into his veins.

Zayn cups fingers to Liam’s sharp jaw, holding him. He sucks roughly on Liam’s bottom lip until a noisy moan – _a growl_ – reaches up from Liam’s lungs and he grins into the next kiss, Liam shoving him back into the door.

He lets fingers bite at his wrist as Liam keeps his hand pinned to the wood, shuffling his lips along Liam’s mouth, licking away every taste. His hips work anti-clockwise over Liam’s for a moment before Liam’s hand drops away, nudging between their twitching waists.

Shaky fingers palm at his cock through his jeans. Zayn smirks into the next kiss, letting Liam feel the shape and the steady throb of his dick. He cock his head back, slacking his jaw, giving Liam permission to trace his teeth with a wet tongue.

“Can I – like, _fuck_.”

Zayn smiles at the shiver in Liam’s voice. His skin feels hot but his muscles relax and this is so _easy_.

Liam is already addicted, he can tell, and there’s fingers playing at the zip of his jeans. It would be so simple – a hand on Liam’s shoulder, guiding him to his knees, rotating his hips with his dick between Liam’s lips until he felt the soft clutch of Liam’s throat around the tip.

Just one beautiful _fuck of a night_ in some frat boy’s room with this kid begging on his knees.

Just another nameless face Zayn could walk away from afterwards but –

The jolt along his arteries freezes Zayn. He cups the nape of Liam’s neck, feeling his feverish breaths over Zayn’s mouth, a hand still splayed over the front of Zayn’s jeans. Strong hands tug Zayn closer, a quiet plea on Liam’s lips that Zayn kisses off.

He swallows a healthy gasp when Liam nudges his nose over Zayn’s and, hesitantly, shakes his head.

“No, no,” he whispers over Liam’s bottom lip, sucking on it for the effect it creates in Liam. “I’m good, like. I don’t think – ‘m good, man.”

Liam furrows his brow, his forehead pressed to Zayn’s, their bodies still shoved together along the door.

Zayn can taste the frown on Liam’s lips and he smiles, biting at it.

“But I thought – “

Zayn sighs quietly, gathering his strength (and the last bit of his sensibility) to push off the door and twists from under Liam’s grip.

He keeps his pants low, his breath easy as he shifts away. His hand scoops the hair out of his eyes and he keeps his back to Liam, not quite ready to look at the drop of Liam’s shoulders or his guilty face.

(Because, somehow, he doesn’t want to disappoint this boy. He doesn’t want him to feel like a shameless shag tomorrow morning when Zayn sneaks out and leaves him arse-naked in a foreign bed with Zayn’s come still slick on his tongue.)

“Nah,” he whispers, dragging the back of his wrist over his forehead to smear off the sweat. “I’m good, mate. We shouldn’t like – promised me’self I’d be a good lad this term.”

There’s a faulty, crooked smile on his lips when he turns on his heels to finally face Liam. To look at those slouched shoulders and half-lidded eyes and confused face. He gives a casual shrug to Liam, sliding his hands into his back pockets.

“But you’re hard,” Liam mumbles, still looking down.

Zayn snorts, lifting his brow even though Liam can’t see it.

“Yeah, well,” Zayn replies, exhaling. “How c’n I not be, right? You’re bloody _fit_ , man. Not half bad at snogging also.”

Something brightens all over Liam at Zayn’s compliment, his chin nudging up just enough for Zayn to pick out the fuzzy star-shaped blush over his cheeks.

“Yeah?”

Zayn laughs, hoarse and sharp, nodding. “Fuck your mouth is bloody nice, Liam. Like I want t’ but it feels a bit inappropriate.”

Liam nods gently, his shoulders still low but he stands a little taller with a flush to his skin.

The gap of space between them feels endless but Zayn needs Liam to stay away. He fucking needs a cigarette and a loo where he can wank off this tension and for Liam to stop _staring_.

Liam swallows, one large hand cupping the nape of his neck while he shyly adjusts his own dick behind his jeans – the denim stretched and looking uncomfortable because Liam is sort of massive and Zayn has no idea what the fuck he’s thinking but –

“Y’need help finding your mates or summat? I mean, because, like,” he says, blinking away from the way Liam situates his cock, groaning under his next breath.

“I’m fine, thanks.”

Zayn nods, shredding down that need under his skin to push this lad into the door and swallow him to the root – just to show Liam how good he can be.

The space grows small and nonexistent when Liam staggers all the way up to curl fingers into Zayn’s messy hair before kissing his cheek.

“Thanks for like,” Liam whispers over Zayn’s stubble, sighing like he’s fumbling for the words. “Wow.”

Zayn giggles, knocking Liam away with a playful swat. “Wow,” he repeats, softly, watching Liam shyly ease open the door.

They stare a little too long with Liam in the archway, the noise of the world finally filtering into their –

Stupid fuck of a night.

Liam’s shoulders tense for a second before he smiles, looking dopey and young like he did on the balcony. He licks at those candy lips, flashing Zayn white teeth when he laughs, waving awkwardly before sneaking back into the party.

And Zayn feels it all over instantly – the relief.

No, the regret.

All of his limbs go slack and he stumbles backwards to flop onto the bed. His fingers squeeze anxiously at his knees and he counts backwards while hauling in shaky breaths.

Because it would have been so easy and Zayn’s never really turned down a chance like that but –

Something shakes apprehensively all over and he smiles. He fucking beams at the floor because he doesn’t want – he doesn’t _need_ easy.

He craves complex and rough and a permanent mark.

“Um, mate?”

Zayn blinks up immediately, freezing up when he spots a drunken bloke (who looks like a frat with his beer-stained _‘keep calm and play rugby’_ shirt and baggy jeans and dodgy haircut with a pretty bird under his arm) leaning in the doorway.

“If you’re not gonna, like, _join in_ then c’n we borrow the bed?”

A sigh rushes over Zayn’s lips and he needs a cigarette, another beer, a _Louis_ , and anything to help him forget this one fuck of a night.

 

||

 

It’s a Monday, rainy and charcoal outside, when classes start back up.

Everything is blue and grey and wet and Zayn’s a little in love with this side of the town. The artfully designed buildings dripping thick droplets and the streets shiny with puddles. It makes the world look washed out and dull but still so beautiful.

It’s the sort of thing Zayn wants to curl in bed to – with a sketchbook, a coffee, and Lupe Fiasco on low from the stereo.

He sneaks two cigarettes (he swears he’s cutting back, honestly) and a cup of earl grey between late morning classes at a local café. He watches from under an archway as students scatter up the sidewalks like screaming comets, dodging heavy raindrops and hiding under thick textbooks. Louis slumps by him midday, looking like a zombie with sunken-in eyes, fucked out hair and a frown as he stumbles all the way to the university library.

It’s amusing and Zayn doesn’t bother to silence his laugh when Louis flips him off and it’s all the things Zayn loves about this place: the weather and the art and Louis.

Their first practice is late into the afternoon and Zayn drags his feet all the way into the gymnasium half after four with wet hair, baggy joggers, and a loose vest.

There’s something so familiar about this –

Trainers squeaking over the shiny floors. Hands smacking loudly against a volleyball. Noisy chants from the sidelines – half of the team running through drills while the other half barks out encouraging catcalls.

Zayn frowns at it all.

(Truthfully, he doesn’t _hate_ the game. He enjoys the strategy and the adrenaline in his blood and the wall that’s always in front of him when he jumps up for a spike. The block. Trying to figure out new ways around it or over it.

It excites this electricity in his veins.)

But he hates practice. He hates pretending to care about a game he knows will end after university is finished.

(because he only needs it for a scholarship, not for a reason to exist like Louis does)

They’re running basic drills: twin setters tossing the balls high and away from the net for spikers and middle blockers to smack down onto the other side at extreme velocity. Louis leading the defensive members through blocking techniques. Coaches teetering along the sideline, jotting notes, comparing plays.

Mostly the same band of rebels Zayn remembers from last year, a few fresh and foreign faces.

“So you’ve decided to show face then?”

Zayn’s lips quirk high into a half-smirk as he watches. In his peripheral, Coach Paddy sidles up with crossed arms, an imposing stance but this warm, warm smile Zayn has always sort of been in love with.

(He’s rough and harsh and unforgiving during a match but afterwards – he’s that deep hug when you’ve failed. That _‘I’m proud of you’_ when you’ve hardly done well enough. That cup of tea and a soft conversation when you’re too knackered to form proper vocabulary.)

“It’s required,” Zayn teases, still watching the team.

“Complete bullshit, Malik,” Paddy huffs, knocking Zayn with an elbow. “You miss it.”

“Not at all,” Zayn says with a half-shrug, sliding his hands into his pockets.

“Yeah,” Paddy hums. “Just here to cheer Tomlinson on?”

“Maybe,” Zayn replies, narrowing his eyes at the poor technique some of the hitters use. “Can’t be too bothered to get back out there, y’know.”

Paddy lifts his eyebrows, easing back on his heels. “So you’ll be half-arsing it like last year then?”

Zayn scowls. “I busted my bum last year trying to be the best out there,” he argues, turning just enough to see Paddy’s wide smile, the knowing look in his eyes.

“I know,” he replies, cocking his head to watch Stan’s uneven sets and Louis diving all over the court to make saves. “Just wanted t’ make sure you’re still in it.”

Errant teeth nip at Zayn’s bottom lip and he twists back towards the court with squinted eyes.

“I’m here. ‘s good enough, innit?”

“Honestly?” Paddy wonders, his shoulders tensing up into a careless shrug. “Not really. Expect more of you, Malik. Hope you’ve learned to keep a cooler head out there. Tomlinson has ‘nough ego for the whole lot of ye. Need a different Zayn this year.”

There’s rough, biting words at the back of Zayn’s throat but he swallows them back as Paddy eases away to bark at a few of the lazy defensive players. He hauls in a deep breath and that itch for a cigarette, to duck back into the rain and trudge back to his university hall rather than being here burns down his lungs.

He doesn’t _need_ to be here. He’s never fit in with this lot –

Zayn’s not sure he’s ever really fit in anywhere, actually.

Louis jogs up with sweaty fringe half in his eyes and a massive grin, his shirt sticking to his chest – damp blue and white all over. He smacks a hand to Zayn’s shoulder to jostle a smile out of Zayn’s lips, glitter in his eyes and this glow around him –

He’s always like this at the start of the year. A fireball in a glass bottle. This embodiment of constellations and a bunch of pretty metaphors that Zayn can’t quite name.

“I knew you’d make it,” Louis says, still panting out loaded breaths from running all over the court. “Couldn’t quite stay away, mate.”

Zayn shrugs with a small smile. “That’s not quite accurate.”

“Oh fuck off,” Louis laughs, nudging in close and reeking of sweat, the same cheesy cologne he’s worn since they met. “You love this place.”

Zayn gives a mild lift of his eyebrows but he doesn’t argue with Louis.

(Mostly because he never wins those fights and, absently, because there is something about this gym and those empty bleachers and the glare of the overhead lights that remind him of a home.

Of the one place he _belongs_ even if he’s never really felt completely comfortable with the idea.)

“So here they are,” Louis says with a cheeky grin, a massive hand motion like he’s introducing Zayn to royalty instead of this tattered collection of misfits meant to be a volleyball team –

Andy with his shaggy gold-brown hair, large frame and lazy left-hand spike. Ashton and Luke, second-year middle blockers who prefer a good spliff and screaming classic rock tunes at each other to anything else. Some fresher defensive specialist, Calum, with his dark hair and a slash of blonde in his fringe like a lightning bolt.

There’s Stan, who is just as loud and overbearing as Louis (they grew up together and Zayn’s always thought the similarities were a bit too noticeable) when he’s off the court but he’s always been slightly reluctant about his setting abilities. Zayn knows he still plays because of Louis; _only_ because of Louis. He’s nervous before every game, ducking off to dry-heave into a bin and looking pale but he’s amazing at strategies. He studies the game like Zayn probably should.

(If all of this, well, _mattered_ to him.)

Harry with his curls knotted into a ponytail and his wide, wide smile, his laugh bright like sunbursts. There’s ink all across a bare arm, the collar of his shirt stretched all the way down to his sternum. He’s clumsy except when he’s near the net – the sort of player Zayn imagines the team needs. Swift and powerful, a little imposing until those soft dimples imprint into his cheeks when he grins goofily.

Danny and his strong features – he’s all hard eyes and sharp cheekbones and sleight in build. He’s got a decent swing (Zayn’s always thought so, even when they were younger) but there’s something predictable about his movements. The opposing block almost always reads his next step, the direction he’s going with the ball.

A few other freshers Zayn doesn’t quite recognize or bother asking about. They’re all too bright-eyed and helpless on the court. The kind of lads that’ll stick around for a season or two, sat on the bench, biting their lips for a chance to get in a game.

(They’ll never play a set and Zayn, absently, feels a little guilty about it all because they _want_ it.

Zayn doesn’t know if he’s ever truly felt that feeling.)

“Have you met the new setter? He’s bloody brilliant. A fucking robot, Zayner, I swear,” Louis beams, shrugging an arm around Zayn’s shoulders while he points to the boy opposite Stan on the court. “Fucking ace. Hey Payno!”

The boy tosses another perfectly timed ball for Harry to swing at before turning on his heels, trainers squeaking over the floor as he smiles widely and –

Zayn freezes. His blood thickens like ice and his next breath is sharp, hollow. His heart gives a stutter behind his ribs because this boy has eyes like warm coffee, lips pink like sugary bubblegum, tan skin and a buzz cut. There’s laughter lines around his eyes and four dark chevrons inked to the underside of a forearm and fuck Zayn can barely feel the oxygen circulating through his system when he jogs up.

When Liam cups a shy hand to the nape of his neck and tilts his head like he’s admiring Zayn for the first time.

(and Zayn wonders does this boy always get this look – abashed and amazed – whenever he looks at something)

“Hi,” Liam says, a little quiet and with his accent so soft.

Zayn chews at his bottom lip until it aches. “Vas happenin’,” he mumbles, his teeth nipping at the edge of his tongue.

Liam snorts, shoulders lifting with a giggle, eyes dropping away.

(Like they did a few nights ago, in the dark, with swollen lips.)

“You play volleyball?” Zayn asks and he regrets it immediately because Liam lifts his eyes with this sudden marvel (like broken stars) behind his eyelashes.

He nods quickly, lips twitching up with his cheeks pushing at his eyes until they’re crinkled.

(Zayn hates how his fingertips catch fire with a need to trace the softness around Liam’s cheeks and feel the gentle prickle of stubble under his chin.)

“All my life,” Liam shrugs. “Just sort of – it’s the only thing I’m good at?”

Zayn shoots him a half-smirk because – well, it’s a lie.

(Because Liam is _brilliant_ at snogging and artful with those large hands and he’s unintentionally amazing at making Zayn bloody mental with a need to shove this boy to his knees, test the strength of his jaw.)

“Do you two – “

Zayn sighs and ignores the sincerely incredulous look Louis is giving them from the corner of his eye. Louis has always been a bit awful at being a wingman and, truthfully, Zayn doesn’t need him to be that.

Because he’s not even interested in Liam like that. It was one fuck of a night, remember? One of those flings you can afford to forget over summer break.

Liam isn’t a permanent mark and Zayn doesn’t need Louis’ stamp of approval.

“You didn’t say anything, like, the other night?” Zayn hisses under his next breath, inclining towards Liam with Louis’ arm still hooked around his shoulders.

(Anchoring him. Keeping him suspended in gravity, Zayn thinks.)

Liam gives a nervous shrug, cocking his head shyly. He’s starting to flush and, usually, Zayn finds that fucking arousing. Watching some boy squirm under his gaze and barely able to hide the want to please Zayn under his skin. That timid look like some boy is willing to do anything as long as Zayn keeps looking at him like that.

But not on this boy. It’s intimidating and this random acceleration of Zayn’s heart only makes him want to walk away.

He curves back under the wing of Louis’ arm instead, sniffing, folding his arms.

“I thought you might’ve, like,” Liam says, his voice low, his eyes turning soft and hopeful. “Nevermind.”

Zayn curves an eyebrow up at him and his tongue works against his teeth for the words that’ll make Liam open up.

(Because, just maybe – Zayn’s a bit curious. And he loves the thickness of Liam’s accent. And he might want to know more about this boy and what makes his skin crawl with pink blush or how easy that laugh sounds when he genuinely finds something funny.)

Instead, Zayn nods slowly, narrowing his eyes. He doesn’t mean to study the way Liam bites over that sweet, full bottom lip or the frame of his eyelashes and the way they make Liam’s eyes so wide, captivating. There’s a neat gloss of sweat over his brow and he’s palming a ball like it’s a fucking stuffed teddy bear.

All of his muscles and bare arms and the low set of his trackies on his waist. Fuck, Zayn just wants a ciggy or two and the rain and _far away_ from this boy.

(Or closer, so fucking close he can taste the sweetness on Liam’s tongue and the way those fingers feel between the hollow spaces of his ribs.)

“Right, well,” Liam laughs, his skin burning and his eyes like ground cinnamon under the fluorescents above. He ducks his head, fingers pressed to the nape of his neck, still half-laughing, “Should get back out there? I mean, like, because I should be _practicing_. Loads of practice. New guy and all.”

Zayn gives him a sharp nod, forcing himself to ignore that tremble in his belly to watch Liam a little longer.

(Honestly, _who the fuck is this kid_ , Zayn wonders with a tremor at the back of his throat)

He watches Liam jog back onto the court, falling right back into rhythm with the hitters. He tosses each ball high and with this goofy grin, perfectly timed for the kind of spike Zayn’s certain any other team in their division couldn’t stop.

Liam is something like a painter out there – the ball anchored by his hands for seconds before he tosses it into the air like flicking stars made of paint over a canvas.

(It’s maddeningly fascinating the way he does it with this lazy ease, far more mature with his technique than Stan has ever been. With the smooth motion of his shoulders and large hands and fingers made for crafting beautiful things.)

(Like finding the pulse under Zayn’s skin and applying pressure over Zayn’s limbs and – )

“ _So_ ,” Louis says instantly, sporting a shameless grin Zayn can see from a corner of his vision. “What’s with the – “

“Shut up, Lou,” Zayn sighs, deflating, knocking Louis away with his hip.

Louis’ chuckle is a bit deafening over the coach’s whistle and the echo of another spike across the court.

(He sort of hates and loves Louis at the same time – something he’s learned to adjust to over the past year. Louis is the kind of mate Zayn can’t imagine life without – some odd form of oxygen that steadies Zayn when he feels like he’s suffocating here.)

“Oi, lads! Sorry ‘m late. Crazy schedule already and there’s hardly a good place t’ get a proper cuppa green tea. What’s the craic?”

Zayn blinks up quickly at this kid with eyes like a swirled sea. His smile is a bit tilted, crooked like he’s not used to it yet with hair that’s all electric blonde tips and dark at the roots. Zayn gives him another once over when Louis pulls in close – a loose vest with the collar stretched out and his skin is pale like unaffected milk, freckled pink from a leftover summer sunburn.

“Is he wearing fucking _yoga pants_?” Louis hisses, pushed on his tiptoes to brush the words against Zayn’s ear.

Zayn chuckles into a loosely clenched fist, trying to cover it with a cough, nodding.

This kid is madness and unafraid and Zayn sort of likes him already.

He stumbles right up to them, a cool breathy smile and his hand extended towards Zayn.

“M’Niall,” he beams, his nose crinkling in the center, pale fingers wrapping firmly around Zayn’s hand. “Call me Nialler. Or whatever. Don’t matta much bro.”

Zayn hums, half-laughing as he squeezes back. “Zayn,” he murmurs, jerking his head towards Louis when their hands separate. “That’s Tommo. Transfer?”

Niall’s eyes crinkle just slightly at the corners when his cotton candy grin stretches. “Y’can tell?”

Zayn laughs this time, a hoarse noise that drags along the center of his chest while Louis stares blankly at Niall.

“A little,” Zayn replies, giving a thoughtless shrug.

“Dublin City University by way of Mullingar, actually,” Niall admits, drawing a hand back to shred through his gel-sticky hair, pressing the flat of his palm to the nape of his freckly pink neck. “Started early. Seventeen me first year, bro. Biology and medicine.”

Zayn cocks his smile sideways, nodding like he’s impressed. “Lit and art studies.”

“Sick,” Niall says, his smile thickening until it’s all Zayn can see on this boy. “Explains the ink,” he adds, waving a hand at all of the artwork crawling up Zayn’s arm, grazing a few fingers along the mehndi on the back of Zayn’s wrist.

“Summat like that,” Zayn snorts.

“Who the fuck are you?” Louis hisses and Zayn quickly jabs him with an elbow.

(It’s not that Louis can help it – he’s naturally a bit of a prick. Unfiltered. A bit unapologetically rude, Zayn thinks.)

Niall lifts his eyebrows amusedly, fucking his hair with his fingers again. He sniffs at Louis, hardly bothered by the hard stare Louis shoots him.

(Zayn definitely likes this kid with this fearless little give to his smile.)

“Defensive specialist,” he offers. “First-year on a real uni team. Plan on making libero before th’ season is up, mate. You?”

“Louis Tomlinson. Captain,” Louis sneers, folding his arms across his chest. “And the team’s libero.”

“Sweet,” Niall says, his eyes lit up like stars turning into comets. He swats a hand at Louis’ shoulder, laughing when Louis flinches. “C’n learn loads from you, yeah?”

“Doubt it,” Louis says under his breath and Zayn buries his giggle in his own shoulder this time, looking away from them.

(And it’s completely unintentional – the way his eyes drift back to the court where Liam sets a ball high, eased reflexes, grinning widely when Harry smacks it down over the net.)

“Horan! Get out th’re. You’re already late,” Paddy shouts from the sidelines, eyeing the three of them with this intense stare that Zayn knows without looking.

“Right then,” Niall nods quickly, giving Louis’ shoulder a sweet squeeze with blunt fingers, laughing bright and loud. “Lookin’ forward to your moves Tomato.”

“ _Tommo_ ,” Louis grunts but Niall is already knocking between them, a half-jog towards the court with the fluorescent lights overhead reflecting silver off of his skin.

“Who the fuck is he s’pposed to be?” Louis says, low and under his breath, still pouting as Niall fits into the fold of the team easily – laughing through every serve receive and digging nearly every ball Danny sends soaring across the net.

“Dunno,” Zayn says, his grin halved and crooked, tipping his chin up. “He seems cool, though, y’know. Chilled.”

“You’ve dreadful taste, Malik,” Louis huffs and his quick fingers pinch at Zayn’s hip, a garbled laugh over his lips when he ducks away from a fist Zayn throws at him.

“Picked you as my best mate didn’t I?” Zayn teases as Louis sprints back to the court.

“I’m an exception.”

Zayn doesn’t argue with Louis or his lively sea glass eyes or the curve of his smile. He chokes back a laugh, shaking his head as Louis’ trainers streak over the floor. He settles in next to Niall, squinty eyes and a determined pull to his jaw as he tries to pass his balls as perfectly as Niall does.

(The competitive shit, Zayn thinks, grinning.)

Zayn stumbles back to his favorite corner of one of the empty benches, sighing. He flops down, yanking an unfinished Wolverine comic from his shoulderbag. His shoulders slouch, his pink lower lip caught between his teeth when Paddy shoots him a disenchanted glare halfway across the gym. He gives Paddy a halfhearted shrug, thumbing through the pages, settling into this familiar feeling –

Half a season spent right here, on the bench, watching the rest of the team struggle through each match. Absently studying all of their mistakes, smiling encouragingly whenever Louis passed by even though they both knew it – _another match lost_.

Another quiet locker room with boys shuffling about and refusing to talk about the match.

“Let’s go Payne! Give ‘em a nice serve,” Paddy shouts, clapping a heavy hand against his clipboard.

Niall drops down next to Zayn, sweaty and grinning. He mops at his brow with a fluffy white towel while Zayn thumbs to another page.

“I hope you lot are ready,” Andy teases with a husky laugh, crossing his arms from the sideline, nodding at Liam.

Zayn peeks up mid-panel. It’s an unconscious reflex (it’s what he tells himself) and he looks up through long, dark eyelashes as Liam bounces the ball a few times at his feet. He studies the way Liam palms the ball in front of himself like he’s holding the universe. There’s something determined and calm that softens all of Liam’s features, earthy eyes watching the stripes of the ball before he tosses it high.

It’s a meteor suspended in the stars. The fall is quick and Liam leaps to meet it halfway. His technique is sharp, crafted when his hand cracks against the ball. It cuts across the court with the sort of velocity that reminds Zayn of a trainwreck.

“Fuck,” Niall whistles, smiling into his towel.

Zayn barely blinks at the ball. It strikes like lightning. A bullet. The ball spikes down between Louis and Calum before they can even bother getting into position.

“Told ya,” Andy grins. “Fucking dickheads.”

Niall leaps up with a yelp, giggling, tossing a fist into the air.

Zayn sucks in a shallow breath, reclining back, swallowing back a quiet _‘fuck’_ because his pulse is still trying to catch up with the oxygen in his lungs. He blinks at Liam standing at the service line with wide eyes.

Liam is shy and pink, smiling, a hand pressed to the nape of his neck. He gives a giggling shrug at the other lads like he’s amazed himself.

(Like none of this is intentional – it’s _natural_.)

“Christ,” Paddy whispers, nodding. “Again, Payne. Try it again.”

(And Liam does – six times. Shattering the ball across the net, right at Calum’s feet. To the left of Louis. Always just near the edge of the court and no one can get a proper touch on the ball.)

“Kid is pretty sick, yeah?” Niall hums, slouching down next to Zayn again, knocking their shoulders. He drops a hand to Zayn’s knee for a quick squeeze and Zayn only manages to blink away from Liam off of instinct alone.

Zayn offers Niall a weak lift of his shoulders.

He’s not really –

(Liam is supposed to be a sour taste in Zayn’s mouth. An end of summer night with alcohol on his tongue and forgotten kisses fading off his lips and fingertips no longer buzzing from intended touches)

He can’t think properly so he doesn’t bother. He folds open his comic book again and ignores Niall.

Zayn ignores everything, including Louis’ frustrated pout when he passes by, patting Liam’s shoulder, a small squeeze like _‘good job bro’_ is supposed to fall off his lips.

(But that little look Liam gives the world – absently shy but with a slow build of confidence – vibrates through Zayn’s mind for the rest of practice.)

 

||

 

“Hey.”

Zayn’s halfway between the practice court and the university halls, the sky a purpled twilight and the air still damp from leftover rain.

He gives a quick glance over his shoulder, even when his heart stops and he knows he should just keep walking. He should get far, far away from that voice and those eyes like cinnamon and Liam’s pink smile – like melted sugar from sour candies.

Zayn’s lazy stride slows just a little until Liam catches up, his heavy breaths loud next to Zayn.

“Vas happenin’,” Zayn whispers, tugging his denim jacket closed against the prickly breeze.

Liam smirks and he looks so young in a massive hoodie and snapback and tight jeans sliding low on his waist. He scuffs his Converse on the pavement, shuffling a little closer.

“You’re on the team,” Liam says, his voice low and uncertain but his smile is still so massive, overwhelming his cheeks and eyes.

“Yeah,” Zayn breathes, shrugging. “You too.”

“Barely,” Liam laughs. It’s sweet and genuine on this boy – like he’s still amazed at himself.

“Not really,” Zayn replies, narrowing his eyes at buildings and half-empty streets. “Y’look proper, dunno, sorted out there? Like you know what you’re doing, mate.”

“Think so?” Liam asks, something choking that confidence back into his voice.

Zayn snorts and gives Liam another unconcerned shrug.

“They tell me – “

“They?” Zayn interrupts.

Under the purple sky and all of the shadows the late evening creates, Zayn can still pick out the pink freckles over Liam’s cheeks. The way he smiles a little smaller like he’s been caught, ducking his head.

“Chatted up a few of the lads on the team. Andy is from back home and he sort of introduced me to everyone,” Liam explains and Zayn barely notices how close they are now, shoulders grazing, their elbows touching.

He swears their hands would be linked too, between their hips, if they weren’t shoved into their pockets from the cold.

“And they, like, they tell me you’re a pretty incredible opposite hitter?” Liam wonders.

Zayn chews on his lower lip, tipping his chin up, blowing a breath out at the sky.

“Not really,” he says, his voice scratched from his post-practice cigarette. “I’m just there.”

“But – “

Zayn clears the shredded softness from his voice, unsteady feet permitting his shoulder to rub against Liam’s between buildings.

“I’m on the team, yeah. But I’m not any good,” Zayn says, licking the soggy coldness from his lips. He sniffs at that hint of fall in the air – copper leaves and smoky atmosphere and something sweet like burnt marshmallows or pumpkin spice.

Out of a corner of his vision, he can see Liam staring at the sidewalk like he’s apprehensive about speaking again.

(It’s endearing like Zayn couldn’t predict and it unnerves him just enough.)

“I mean,” he sighs, rolling his eyes when Liam lifts his chin, “I’m not the best out there. Only played a few games last season. Couldn’t get a proper hit off any of the balls thrown at me during sets.”

Their walk slows, something languid and loose even though the night is thickening and turning colder. All of Liam’s warmth, right next to him, seeps through their clothes and Zayn leans into it a little too briskly.

“Maybe you didn’t have the right bloke setting for you?” Liam offers, something purposely teasing and bright in his voice.

Zayn chuckles quietly. His fingers want to curl around his cigarette and he wants the smoke to filter into his lungs, to drag this sugary-warmth out of his organs because he associates it with Liam now.

(it’s incredibly _daunting_ and Zayn’s never really liked that word out of context or on his tongue)

“S’that you?” Zayn asks, cocking his chin up.

Liam beams at him, all crinkled eyes and massive smile and round cheeks. It’s disturbing, Zayn thinks, but he only laughs at it until Liam turns a swollen carnation under the dense sky.

“I dunno,” Liam says while biting at a corner of his bottom lip. “My old coaches thought I was fairly decent, y’know? I wasn’t much of a setter back in Wolverhampton but Coach Paddy recruited me f’r it. He said I had potential?”

“You seem capable,” Zayn smiles.

“That a compliment?” Liam inquires, tilting his head, his smile jagged and amusing.

Zayn wriggles his eyebrows and burns off the need for that cigarette for a moment. Just long enough to enjoy the taste of this feeling.

(Which, admittedly, is the worst imaginable feeling because it sticks to his ribs. It feels suffocating.

Zayn is not a character he’s studied in over a dozen romantic tales in over a hundred novels about falling in love unexpectedly.

He’s certain he’ll never really know that feeling without merit.)

“Payno! Pizza and colas back at mine! C’mon,” Andy shouts halfway across the lawn, leaning under an orangey street lamp with some of the team gathered around him.

Liam tenses, teeth running over an achy bottom lip, making it swell. It’s the first time Zayn’s noticed they’re not walking anymore – idling under the dense sky and in the middle of the sidewalk, the air around them still damp but somehow glowing like the start of a bonfire.

“I should, like,” Liam huffs, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans, losing some of his cool. Some of that bristly confidence that Zayn was just beginning to enjoy.

(And he thinks, not for the second time, this boy is _lethal_ in a quietly appealing way.)

(No – a ruthlessly _‘I’m fucked’_ kind of way that Zayn wants to shout out loud)

“I should go. Y’know, catch up with ‘em,” Liam says after a long breath. “Sort out my night and all. Classes in the morning.”

“Classes in the morning,” Zayn repeats, easing back on his heels.

“Practice tomorrow?”

“Maybe,” Zayn shrugs, shoving his lower lip under his teeth when Liam blinks at him. “S’ppose I can be bothered for a few hours.”

Something lights up around the edges of Liam’s face – the way Christmas lights outline roofs and the shudders and the windows during the winter – and he nods quickly at Zayn. He shuffles a weak punch at Zayn’s shoulder that Zayn slides an eyebrow up at.

“See you, dude,” Liam laughs and he’s running across the grass before Zayn can whisper a _‘hope not’_ because –

Liam is a horrible, disturbing distraction from all of the things Zayn hates about this place.

“I knew I recognized him,” Louis hums, sidling up to Zayn out of nowhere like a fucking illusionist. His knit beanie covers most of his messy hair, his smile cocked up like a weapon, his loose zip jumper hanging off his shoulders. “From the party?” he asks but his cheeky grin gives him away.

Zayn wrinkles his face and turns away from the sight of Liam high-fiving all of the lads gathered under the light, the way he just fits into their little misfit gang.

“You snogged him, didn’t you?” Louis continues, rubbing against Zayn’s side like a fucking cat.

Zayn grimaces, striding in the opposite direction of some boy with glowing cheeks and a stupidly warm smile.

“Leave it, Lou,” he hisses.

“Did you shag ‘im too? Can’t remember all of the details. Was a bit bladdered that night,” Louis smirks, keeping up with Zayn’s swift pace.

Zayn groans roughly, dragging a hand down his face.

“Do you have a puppy?” Louis teases, shifting up on the balls of his feet to expose his wide, taunting smile for Zayn to view.

“Fuck off.”

“You have a puppy,” Louis confirms to himself, laughing. “A large, fucking _fit_ , bloody great volleyball playing puppy. With big eyes. Is his cock big too? I bet it is. His hands are massive and I’ve _heard_ – “

Zayn knocks a sharp elbow into the space between Louis’ ribs and hip and smiles a little too proudly when Louis doubles over, gasping for oxygen.

It’s the only thing that eases off the ache of half-drunk kisses and the softly abashed tone in Liam’s voice when Zayn complimented him.

(He huffs through two cigarettes outside of his university hall later, listening to Louis cheer about how great the team is going to be this season and burning off any leftover memories he manages to create of Liam’s eyes and his blossoming smile anytime Zayn looked at him.)

 

||

 

Zayn groans softly at the pounding at his door, dragging his feet across the cold floor. He’s shoving inky hair out of his face and his vision is still blurred at the very edges like he’s still half in a dream.

He craves his afternoon kips. His long moments between courses and studying and inking another notebook page with anecdotes on Shakespearian plays. It’s the only way he can halfway function here.

“I can hear you _breathing_ , you slag!”

Zayn sighs and his teeth pick at his bottom lip to disfigure his smile the minute he yanks open the door.

Louis leans in the doorway like a punk rock Romeo – all wrecked hair and fringe in his eyes and scruffy cheeks with a Ramones t-shirt, ripped acid wash jeans, Vans with no socks.

(Zayn thinks, belatedly, Louis is the only one who can manage to look like less than a daft bastard dressed like this and it’s the only reason Zayn’s never bothered taking the piss at Louis’ absurd outfits.)

“Fuck off,” Zayn huffs but he budges back to let Louis inside.

“Oi, ‘lo to you too, mate,” Louis grins, their hips brushing, fingers in a half-tangle as Louis pulls Zayn all the way back to his bed, falling back together on the crummy mattress.

“I was studying, you dick,” Zayn sighs.

Louis shoots him this doubtful little look – creased blue eyes and a cheeky smile like he _knows_ Zayn’s lying.

(he always does, the fucking bastard)

“Y’look like shit,” Louis says, dragging a rough hand through Zayn’s tangled dark hair.

Zayn gives him a careless shrug, still too lazy to be cross with him.

He’s comfortable in an oversized jumper, the sleeves pulled all the way down over his knuckles, and skinnies, bare feet and wriggling toes hanging off the edge of the bed.

“Stan is out,” Louis mumbles, half of his face pressed into one of Zayn’s pillow. He lifts a spare eyebrow at Zayn, frowning. “The puppy is the new starting setter.”

Zayn nods slowly, dragging aimless fingers through Louis’ messy hair. He blinks up at the ceiling for a few quiet breaths, Louis’ nose pressed to his shoulder, their gravity cocooned in this one space.

They’re shoved against each other on Zayn’s bed, like they always are when the world seems too big, synchronizing their breaths and staring at the ceiling with Tears for Fears playing low on Zayn’s stereo.

“You sound gutted,” Zayn whispers, his voice still scratchy and deep from his kip.

“Not really,” Louis shrugs, crossing their ankles over the edge of the bed. “Stan wanted out – we both know it, mate. Just sucks ‘cause he’s like – “

“Your best mate?” Zayn offers.

Louis huffs a breath and tickles a few fingers up Zayn’s side. “I’ve known him for ages, mate. I want him happy.”

Zayn nods along, half-turning his head to watch Louis mouth _‘nothing ever lasts forever everybody wants to rule the world’_ at the ceiling.

“S’not a funeral, Lou. He’ll still be on the team,” Zayn laughs, the noise vibrating through his chest when Louis kicks out at him.

“Oi, shut it,” Louis pouts. “Piss off, Malik. ‘m fine with it. Plus Leemo – “

“Leemo?” Zayn hums, cocking an eyebrow at Louis.

“Yes, _Leemo_ ,” Louis repeats, sucking in his lower lip, leaning up into the soft scratch of Zayn’s fingers on his scalp. “They’ve all got nicknames, right Zayner?”

Zayn sneers and scrunches his face when Louis giggles, shifting up the bed to press a wet kiss to Zayn’s cheek. Zayn shoves back, biting at his smile, shaking his head when Louis settles right back into that space next to him.

Into their solar system of touching limbs and knowing grins.

“That Horan bloke is pretty brilliant,” Zayn says, slow and careful for Louis’ reaction.

Louis drops a hand over his eyes, groaning, toeing at Zayn’s ankle. “Piss off.”

“C’mon Lou,” Zayn sighs, dragging an arm underneath and around Louis’ shoulders, pulling him closer. His lips brush along Louis’ warm temple before he adds, “Admit it. He’s gonna be good for the team.”

“He’s a tosser,” Louis frowns. “And fucking incredible out there, the arsehole.”

Zayn wheezes his laugh into Louis’ hair and they stay just like this – mismatched jigsaw pieces fitting together over a bed, tucked away from the world.

“The puppy is pretty brilliant too,” Louis adds, his voice dropping like a secret, a little less casual, overloaded in the way Zayn hates. When their chats start to turn a little too serious and Zayn’s unprepared for the calloused fingers sneaking under the sleeve of his jumper to rub along his wrist, comforting little marks Zayn will still feel in an hour.

“Sure, whatever,” he says, cocking his head to look up at the ceiling.

Louis snorts, pinching at Zayn’s wrist. “S’okay for you to, like, think he’s pretty cool.”

“Don’t really know ‘im, Lou,” Zayn shrugs back.

“But you knew him enough to snog him. Did you blow him too?”

Zayn groans, fluttering his eyes shut, trying not to remember a cotton candy mouth and large hands and the _‘no’_ he never should’ve pressed to his teeth to stop Liam.

“He’s a fresher,” Zayn whispers, keeping his eyes closed, watching the pinwheel of carnival colors against his lids. “And he’s so – like, he’s so _new_ , man. I’m not ready for that. Just some summer snog or summat. S’all pretty basic, innit?”

Louis hums a response, tilting his head until their temples touch, their chests rising and falling in unison.

“Don’t really know, bro. I’m not a proper expert on things like that,” Louis mumbles, his fingers still shifting under Zayn’s sleeve, soothing over Zayn’s skin.

The music fades a little in the background, the noise of the hall and all of the students on the lawn outside filtering into the empty spaces. Zayn’s fingers still in Louis’ hair and they breathe.

Slow, calm, deep breaths.

“Still over between you and El?” he wonders between the start of Vampire Weekend and some loud game of lousy campus footy outside of his window.

“Dead and gone, bro,” Louis whispers back, unaffected this time. “She’s a cool bird, though. Sends me texts from Paris.”

“Gonna write her a love letter?” Zayn teases, drifting in the noise around them.

“A fucking novel,” Louis laughs. “A _‘thanks for ruining me for other girls – think I’ll take up shagging lads more often’_ sort of thing, y’know? She’ll love it.”

“A proper sonnet,” Zayn smiles.

(It’s just another side of Louis that Zayn adores – he’s never been particular. A weekend away with Eleanor. Snogging some random bloke at a dumb frat party. Chats about a threesome the weekend before his first term here with an older couple from his neighborhood. An endless list of bullshit and good times that Zayn grins at.)

“We’re gonna be great this year, Zayner,” Louis promises, his voice going soft and gently confident. He squeezes at Zayn’s wrist under the thick material of his jumper and Zayn doesn’t bother arguing.

(A small, quiet half of him wants Louis to be right.

But just for Louis, not himself.)

 

||

 

Zayn is anchored to his favorite spot on the bench, near the edge with his shoulderbag at his feet. He’s two-thirds through an Ultimate Spider-Man comic book and an apathetic sketch of Ghost Rider in one of his notebooks. His head bobs lazily along to the music filling his ears through his buds, teeth working over his bottom lip as he pretends not to notice the team practicing a few yards away.

He pretends to ignore them stretching, running drills, strength techniques.

He ignores Liam.

The same boy standing over him with a dopey smile, gripping a volleyball between his large hands in a loose jersey and trackies.

Zayn can barely make out all of the noise around him, blinking up through his eyelashes as Liam tilts his head, spinning the ball, just enough tension in his jaw to make his crooked smile oddly genuine. He watches Liam mouth a _‘hi’_ with stars dusting his eyes almost golden in the bright lights of the gym. Zayn tugs out one earbud just to hear Liam –

“Are you gonna practice with us today?”

His teeth tug gently at a corner of his lower lip, a round echo of _‘I can’t get over you, you left your mark on me I want your high love and emotion endlessly’_ in his left ear as he studies Liam.

A nice sleek shimmer of sweat shines across his bare arms, all the way up to the tan skin of his shoulders. Wide, broad shoulders. Strong hands turning a ball between artistic fingers. A caramel paint splatter of a birthmark on his neck – a spot Zayn has imagined leaving a jagged bruise around with his mouth.

Over and over, too many times to count now.

“What?”

Liam’s lips twitch into a soft smile. “Practice? You haven’t really – I mean, like. Every practice, you go up for a couple of hits, a few blocks and then sit back down,” Liam says with an awkward shrug, leaning back on his heels. “S’like you don’t want t’ be here?”

Zayn’s mouth eases into a curious grin. “They don’t need me.”

Liam shakes his head quickly, laughing to cover his embarrassed smirk. “Not true, man,” he insists, tossing the ball up, catching it with one hand. “They say you’re pretty fantastic out there, mate.”

Zayn gives Liam a gradual nod, turning his eyes back to the comic in his lap.

“I’m really not, mate.”

Liam scuffs a trainer on the maple hardwood. “But you should, like – come practice?”

Zayn sniffs out a laugh. “I’m good.”

He thumbs through another page, dragging the edge of his pencil over a poor outline of flames around Ghost Rider’s skull. Lazy smears of grey from the underside of his palm streak across the sheet. It’s all careless and meant to look uninviting but Liam keeps hovering.

He keeps breathing loud enough for Zayn to ignore the _‘just hold on we’re going home’_ thumping in one ear.

“I’m not a bad guy, y’know,” Liam says, his voice cracking halfway through. He clears his throat roughly and Zayn lifts his eyes, disregarding the sting of the overhead lights to look at Liam.

He hums at Liam like a question and Liam shrugs haphazardly like that says enough.

“I mean, I’m just,” Liam sighs while palming the back of his neck. “You don’t really say much t’ me.”

“I’m s’pposed to?” Zayn wonders, cocking his head a little.

(There’s a roar – quietly evolving, starting at Liam’s chest – like Liam’s offended.

Or ashamed. Zayn can’t quite tell.)

“No,” he whispers, dragging the heel of his trainer over the floor – the rubber squeaking loudly. “Nevermind.”

Zayn leans back, his tongue darting out to lick the dryness from his chapped lips. His fingers squeeze around his pencil for a moment, scratching errant lines over his sketch.

“I’m just not a bad lad ‘s all,” Liam mumbles, shifting his eyes up to stare at Zayn.

Zayn lifts an eyebrow and Liam refuses to budge. It’s amusing, honestly, and Zayn feels a helpless little smile slide across his mouth.

(It tastes like cheap beer and stinging kisses and a boy a little less confident a few weeks ago.)

“No,” he says under his breath, lowering his eyes again. “You’re not.”

There’s an etched in silence between them for a moment, crowded by noisy boys and volleyballs bouncing off the hardwood. It sits awkwardly and Zayn tries to filter through it. He hates things like this – trying to find words to say when he’s not even certain they’re necessary.

Because they haven’t really talked about it. The kisses and the touches and the _almost_.

(The fucking _almost_ Zayn thinks about when he’s not meaning to.)

“So,” Liam says, shuffling up, dropping down on the bench and nearly knocking Zayn’s notebook over, “you’re into Marvel, yeah?”

Zayn bites at his lip. “Sorta,” he shrugs, a tickle of a laugh shaking through his throat. “Just like comic books in general, I guess.”

“I’m a huge DC bloke,” Liam admits, low and with this childlike smile Zayn’s certain he wears whenever someone finds him interesting.

(when someone isn’t focused on his features and the color of his skin and the way he talks)

“Marvel too,” Liam adds, his smile turning a little goofy, his cheeks dyed a neon pink. “Me mates back home call me nerdy but I’m a massive comic book geek, y’know? The last Batman series smashed everything I’ve ever seen. Bloody incredible stuff, man.”

Zayn snorts, tucking a few loose strands of hair behind his ear.

“I was a bit mad over _Man of Steel_ ,” he says, letting Liam steal the comic from his lap. “Saw it five times.”

“Six,” Liam smirks with a defenseless lift of his shoulders. “And the new Spider-Man, too.”

“Sick film,” Zayn laughs, still chewing little bruises into his lower lip. “You cried, didn’t ya?”

Liam ducks his head, looking around like it’s a secret he’s kept so well hidden before giving a small nod.

“Couldn’t properly handle the ending, man. Covered me eyes the second time around,” he mutters and Zayn feels the laugh rattle through his chest this time.

Liam gives him a soft punch to the shoulder and, absently, brushes his fingers apologetically over the same spot like he was too rough. His thumb is warm through the fabric of Zayn’s shirt and it draws aimless circles until Zayn wants the heat to pulse like a good memory.

Like _one last fuck of a night_ not quite finished.

“Let’s go Payne! Need you to give some tosses to the attackers,” Paddy barks from the service line, a rough expression bruised into his face.

Liam tenses, shy fingers dropping away, scooting back on the bench like –

Like he’s still too shy for the world to watch him blossom. To see him be himself.

(And Zayn knows that feeling – wanting to climb out of the cage. A whole world he’s always known judging him for enjoying the touch of a boy. For snogging a guy. The mates he’s known since he was old enough to climb trees and scratch up his knees starting to shift away from him because of something he couldn’t quite control.

Because he was starting to be himself.)

Liam staggers up to the net with slouched shoulders, turning his face away from the little stare Andy’s giving him.

Zayn scowls. It’s a rage he doesn’t quite understand yet – wanting to shake Liam. Needing to show Liam what confidence tastes like.

(even though Zayn’s still not completely comfortable in his own skin or with his own quirks or the way people still glare at him like he’s meant to be feared because of who he is.

Of who his father is or his religion or – )

He exhales and drops his vision to the open comic left in Liam’s absence until –

“You too Malik! Get out here. Your lazy arse is part of this team too,” Paddy adds, his tone demanding.

Zayn’s brow lifts immediately, sucking in his bottom lip. Paddy stands tall and determined at the back line, narrowing his eyes like a dare. Like a challenge.

(Zayn hates fucking challenges and he’s never been good at turning down dares.)

He exhales a rough noise, shoving aside his notebook, pushing off the bench to jog all the way onto the court. There’s a dozen pair of eyes on him but he ignores the heat and the pressure to focus on Liam.

Liam with a ball squeezed between his fingers, wide earthy eyes and a tiny smile. The boy biting his lower lip raw like he’s been anticipating this moment and –

Fuck, it all sounds so _daft_ in Zayn’s head and, honestly, he’s not here to prove anything like Louis is.

It’s just for a scholarship. An alternate route through a university his parents can’t afford and a chance to finish a degree in something he enjoys. Something other than volleyball.

A whistle rattles him and a soft exhale parts Liam’s lips before he gives Zayn a small nod, stepping back.

“Don’t muck it up, Zayner,” Louis teases from a few meters back, chuckling.

Zayn considers flipping him off but Liam’s already lifting his arms, muscles flexing into smooth lines like a charcoal drawing before he tosses the ball above the net.

He’s done this enough times back at Tongs, even last season on this court. His eyes stay on the ball as he drags a foot back for positioning. He measures the distance in his head – strategy. He’s looking for an approach, a proper angle before he jumps. A quick inhale that sounds sharp like a hurricane before he sprints up to the net and leaps.

Before he fucking _misses_ _the ball_ and clips it with the edges of his fingers, watching it wobble up against the net. It drops with him into a heap on the floor, his mind too distracted ( _embarrassed_ , he thinks) to find the right footing to land properly.

White halos from the lights on the ceiling stare down at him. He can feel the ache right along his spine from hitting the hardwood. His fingertips are cold against the surface but that hot pressure down his sternum, the one that flushes his skin and keeps him pinned to the floor, unsettles all of his next breaths.

Zayn can hear the muffled laughter in his ears. The rebounding _‘way to go Malik’_ and _‘pathetic bloke can’t even hit the ball anymore’_ rushes through his pink ears like the hollow of an ocean in a seashell.

He’s never moving from right here.

“Hey,” Liam whispers, hovering over him with one hand on his knee, another stretched out to Zayn. Wiggling fingers like _‘c’mon I’ve got you’_ and that round smile hiding the way Liam’s worried brow is furrowed into deep creases.

Zayn groans pathetically, sighing. His palms remain pressed to the cold floor rather than reaching back.

“C’mon,” Liam says, softer even, his smile twitching crookedly. “Lemme – “

“No,” Zayn pouts.

“Babe,” Liam sighs, the noise like a shallow, unintended breath rather than an actual word. “C’mon, just let me – “

Zayn grunts but his hand peels away from the glossy maple. He’s still flushed with embarrassment but Liam –

He fucking grins hard, his eyes crinkling up, his nose scrunching as he wraps warm fingers around Zayn’s hand. The tendons in his forearm pulse, muscles shifting the stains of dark ink until Zayn almost can’t recognize the tattoos. There’s barely any effort when he gently pulls Zayn to his feet – all muscle and instinct and tenderness.

“Careful,” Liam nuzzles to Zayn’s ear, wrapping an arm around Zayn’s spine.

Zayn sucks in a quick breath at the press of warm fingers along his spine. They’re low, right against the small dimples at the bottom. A hint of pressure like the touch has an intent. Sweet, teasing poetry and Zayn can’t help himself – he presses back into the cool shift of Liam’s fingertips while he exhales his next breath into Liam’s sweaty shoulder.

Liam snorts next to his ear, the barest brush of the tip of his nose down Zayn’s cheek.

“Alright?”

“Yeah,” Zayn breathes.

“Too low?” Liam asks, stuttering back when someone wolf-whistles.

(It’s stupid – some daft thing blokes do. It’s teasing, not accusing but Liam gives Zayn this shocked look like – like he shouldn’t have. Like he’s terrified.)

Zayn crinkles his nose, shaking his head. He dusts the dirt from his clothes, kicking at the missed ball at his feet.

“No,” he replies, rolling his shoulders. “Perfect. Quicker this time, okay?”

Something breaks over Liam’s face when Zayn steps back, tossing Liam another ball. It siphons all of the worry in his brow and calms all of that tension in his shoulders, draws out a soft smile so quickly. His cheeks color but with less apprehension this time.

There’s something like screaming stars in Liam’s eyes before he nods back, gripping the ball until his muscles pulse.

The heat curls in Zayn’s chest – it tastes like _anticipation_ and burns like adrenaline – before he drags one foot back, shaking off the tightness in his muscles.

Liam follows Zayn’s instruction without missing a breath. He tosses the ball high, quicker this time and Zayn sprints to catch it. He drags his arm back with wriggling fingers. He catches the ball with the full weight of his palm this time, his skin smacking sharply against the surface, the ball spiking down like a rocketing comet.

Like a fucking supernova slung out of orbit.

“Shit,” Ashton hisses.

“Fucking hell,” Louis smirks, crossing his arms.

Zayn’s feet are barely touching the hardwoods before the other boys are howling, catcalling like he’s a warrior returned from the war.

Like a bloody demigod after he’s crushed an army.

“Sick, man,” Niall cheers, stumbling up, tossing a careless arm around Liam’s broad shoulders to squeeze him in. “Ye kidding me, mate? S’like you and him were one. You tossed to him like – bro, _wow_. You two from that _Pacific Rim_ film or summat?”

Liam giggles shyly into Niall’s neck, his cheeks already stained an awful pink, his shoulders lifting into a lazy shrug.

Zayn sniffs, catching a laugh in his chest before it escapes. He puffs out a breath to knock loose fringe from his eyes, fingers pushing it back up into the knot at the top of his head. There’s leftover adrenaline still throttling through his veins, his breathing out of sync.

(and that little hint of thrill throbs from the red mark along his palm all the way to his fingertips)

He cocks his head sideways, shooting Liam a little look like – he’s not quite sure.

It’s not that he’s impressed with this kid or grateful but –

“Again,” Paddy says, still demanding but Zayn can already see the flinch at the corner of his lips – he’s stunned. “Toss to him again, Liam. Back set. Come around for the meter line Zayn.”

He claps his hand over his clipboard, motioning for Coach Ben to pass Liam a different ball.

“Set ‘im up Horan!” Paddy barks, pacing back and forth.

Niall leaps happily, thumping his heels together before chasing after a free ball.

Zayn wrinkles his brow while Liam bites on his lip. They share a small stare, a wordless little look. This hummingbird moment before they breathe in simultaneously – a link.

A livewire connection that Zayn can’t identify but he feels –

Relaxed. Calm. He forgets, briefly, he’s only doing this for a place on the team. For a scholarship. His way out.

And Liam wrinkles his face into a dopey smile before stepping back into position, waiting for Niall to pass him the next ball.

Waiting for Zayn to meet him somewhere between the floor and high above the net.

 

||

 

They practice different angles and plays until Zayn is sweaty and exhausted and craving a pack of Marlboros.

Until he can’t seem to drag this happy smile off of his lips or leak the electric adrenaline from his cells.

His muscles ache in tender spots, throbbing beneath his skin like a backbeat. He’s struggling with the weight of his shoulderbag strapped across his chest, his feet dragging up the sidewalks. His throat is still a little dry (even though Louis shoved a water bottle and a taunting smile at him the second he stepped off the court) but there’s something new in his lungs.

No – something familiar.

Like the same morning tide surfers find at the dawn of summer. It’s that intoxicating feeling without all of the alcohol in your blood.

The night is stretched over Cambridge like an inky river. The stars aren’t close enough to light anything up and September tastes like smoky bonfires and aging leaves. It drags a crooked smile over Zayn’s lips.

Zayn lights a cigarette between buildings, cupping a hand over the flame when the wind knocks about, tucking a reserved ciggy behind his ear. His boots flop over the pavement, the laces loose, his tartan shirt puckering up when the wind fits between all of the unattached buttons.

“Zayn!”

Something coils around Zayn’s already heavy shoulders at the noise. He recognizes the voice immediately, the happy glide in his tone and the smile Zayn can’t quite view but he knows it’s there.

(And he knows that little stutter in his heart is becoming a little less foreign – but he’s unsure why he sort of likes it.

Because a brief snog and chats about everything but that night in some frat kid’s room shouldn’t equate a flutter in his heartbeat.

He should not be a predictable character in some autobiography about dumb university romances.)

Zayn half-turns on his heels, lifting his chin into the light, refusing to let his mouth cock into a smile when Liam jogs up, looking breathless and goofy.

(Stupid buzz cut and candy-pink lower lip and eyes like fucking cultivated earth)

“Vas happenin’,” Zayn says and it comes out raspy from the smoke but Liam grins at it.

Zayn shakes his head before the sting of bloody blush settles into his cheeks.

“You were, like,” Liam huffs, absently palming the nape of his neck like he always does. “You were so – “

“It’s alright,” Zayn laughs, balancing the cigarette with a corner of his mouth, pushing out weak clouds of smoke with his tongue. “Y’can say I was awful, babe. ‘m not bothered by it.”

Liam scrunches his brow, confused. His baggy hoodie – a university one, deep blue with bold white letters – hugs around him and the street lamps make the leftover sweat on his temple glitter.

“No, you were like – you were sort of amazing, man,” Liam says, still sounding muddled. “Even Louis couldn’t dig your attacks. It was fantastic.”

Zayn snorts, chasing a cough of smoke with a smile he knows is rubbish. It’s silly with his tongue pressed to his teeth and the stretch making his jaw ache.

“I was lucky,” he shrugs, puffing his next breath of smoke away from Liam.

(He has _manners_ , he thinks, even though he doesn’t honestly give a shit if anyone has a problem with him smoking. Except his mum. And Liam, maybe.

Fuck.)

“You were good,” Liam corrects, giggling.

Zayn rolls his eyes but that wide grin pushes unfairly against his cheeks. He can barely wrap his lips around the filter, settling on just breathing in the smoke rather than inhaling the sweet nicotine.

“Some people say it’s the setter,” Zayn teases, his spare hand reaching out to thump a useless punch to Liam’s strong shoulder.

He doesn’t flinch and Zayn groans. He’s some sort of real-life superhero with the warm smile and contorting muscles and strong build. It’s disturbing.

(And wholly arousing. Zayn absently reaches down to adjust himself, this thumb brushing over the shaft of this thickening cock to soothe the ache before he shoves it down.)

“I’m not,” Liam laughs nervously, looking away. The fuzzy glow of street lamps outlines his face and his nose and the flutter of his eyelashes, everything spun ivory from here. “I’m not – like. I just practice bloody hard, mate. If I’m being honest – “

“You’re a shit liar,” Zayn grins.

Liam sputters and ducks his head, his hood barely hiding the pink riding along the edges of his cheeks.

“Shut it,” he mumbles, chewing his lip, smiling a little gentler. “I’m jus’ saying, mate. It was – it was loads of fun watching you.”

Zayn nods, huffing a smoky laugh. He sniffs and flicks the ash off his cigarette.

“Don’t get used to it,” he mutters, tilting his head back, exhaling a mass of blue clouds that dissipate into the dark sky. “I’ll be back on the bench for the first game.”

Liam’s eyebrows crinkle and his mouth goes round when he says, “But – “

Zayn waves him off with a coughing laugh. He takes another strong drag, pinching the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger like a spliff. The heat of the smoke settles right into his chest for a moment before he swallows.

“It’s cool, Leeyum, honestly,” he says, lifting an eyebrow. “I’m good. Not my thing.”

Liam’s shoulders drop, hands shoved into his jeans. His teeth nibble the skin of his lower lip like ripe fruit – the pink settling into a cherry color, turning white under the pressure, shining like the inside of a grapefruit when his tongue brushes over the flesh.

Careful feet shuffle closer and Zayn’s only half paying attention (too focused on wanting to sketch the shape of the sky and the smoke in his lungs leaving him weightless) to notice Liam’s fingers sliding into Zayn’s hair, pushing it behind his ear.

“I still think about, um, when we,” Liam sucks in a quick breath when Zayn looks at him and all of the words lump into his throat. “Nevermind.”

Zayn smirks, nodding.

(He still thinks about it too. It’s fucking shit but _he does_. Too much, he thinks.)

“Bunch of the lads are going into town. Some pub is having a karaoke night?” Liam mumbles, his hand dropping away.

It tickles the seam of Zayn’s jeans for a moment, curious little touches like he needs permission.

(And Zayn won’t give it – not for another night of cheap kisses and sour alcohol on his tongue and an _almost_ with a boy he doesn’t have that sort of time for.)

“Just gonna muck about for a few hours,” Liam shrugs, finally easing his hand back to his side.

Zayn breathes out an easy laugh, stubbing his cigarette with the toe of his boot. He hollows out his last breath of smoke towards the sky.

“Lord Byron,” Zayn smiles, letting his mouth shift up crookedly when Liam wrinkles his brow. “I’m studying romanticism. I’ve got an assignment due and loads to read,” he adds, patting his shoulderbag, lifting his shoulders carelessly.

Liam hums, chewing his lip again – staining it a blushing red like the inside of a plum.

(Zayn licks his own lips, wanting the leftover sweetness of an absently forgotten kiss there.)

“Another time?” Zayn offers, tilting his head.

There’s a brightness in Liam’s eyes, his smile stretching before he nods.

“Another time,” he repeats, softer.

Zayn laughs again, dragging a hand into his hair, clearing his lungs of leftover smoke. They stare awkwardly at each other for a few seconds before Zayn shrugs and turns away.

He walks a little faster this time (ignoring the snapping fire burning in his legs and the way his muscles still pulse) and doesn’t look back to see if Liam’s still standing there.

Because that’s pathetic and predictable – two things Zayn thinks he’s slowly becoming incredibly brilliant at.

 

||

 

“I _think_ ,” Louis says (and Zayn is already trying to hide the width of his grin in the collar of his clean white button-up) between sips of tea and bites of toast, “my game will improve if I get shagged.”

Zayn rolls his eyes instantly, swallowing down a gulp of shit coffee from a university cafeteria. He thinks he’s heard this speech enough times (at the start of last season when he was still so new to Louis and mid-season when the team had only won two games and just before Louis left for summer break) that it shouldn’t be so amusing.

Still, Zayn smiles into his coffee and nods along.

“Shagged?” Zayn offers in a put upon voice – for Louis’ sake.

Louis gives a mild shrug, cocking his head up to the clear sky overhead.

It’s still early into the afternoon when the sky is a clear blue like picnic tablecloth patterns and the sun climbs above cottony clouds to streak everything on campus a saffron hue. There’s just enough warmth left in September where they don’t need heavy coats and boots to trudge across the lawn. Just Vans and boots and they’re ripped skinnies between classes.

“Thinking of getting fucked mate?” Zayn teases, keeping his voice low as they drag past a crowd of sorority girls in their sweet mint sweaters and shades of cherry blossom blush.

Louis gives another shrug, slurping rudely at his tea.

“Maybe a blowie and a little fingering?” he suggests.

Zayn pulls a quick face, knocking their shoulders roughly as they kick through the grass.

“Gross,” Zayn laughs into his coffee, letting the awful sting replace the horrible flavor of bargain creamer and lumps of sugar. “Why not just date a bloke for a bit? Y’know, get like a proper boyfriend. It’s a little less, well, _inappropriate_ , innit?”

Louis rolls his eyes and exhales a pathetic groan into his tea. “Sounds dreadful,” he hums, flicking the crust of his toast to a flock of birds. “And I hardly have the time for it during the season.”

“But you and Nick – “

An incredulous noise squeaks from the back of Louis’ throat and Zayn refuses to hide his grin this time, nudging Louis with an elbow.

“I have _rules_ , Malik,” Louis hisses, hooking an arm around Zayn’s shoulders to drag him in.

“No dating teammates,” Zayn sighs.

“Or shagging ‘em. Especially not dickheads like Grimshaw who – “

“You were madly in love with?” Zayn inserts, biting around his smile when Louis squints at him.

“I hated him,” Louis exhales. “Absolutely hated the bugger. He was a twat. And horrible.”

Zayn nods, shrugging from under the weight of Louis’ arm to take another swallow of coffee (and to make another vindictive face at the taste).

“Is this ‘cause he made captain before you?” Zayn wonders, pushing loose strands of his hair out of his eyes.

Louis cock his chin up haughtily and Zayn pretends to cough to cover the laugh thundering in his chest.

“I deserved it last season, bro. You and that whole shitty squad of ours knows it, Zayner,” Louis argues.

(And he might be right but Zayn’s never going to admit it to his face. Not unless he has to.)

Zayn glares at his half-finished coffee, scoffing at it before chucking it in a nearby bin. His hand instinctively tugs a beat up pack of Marlboros from the back pocket of his jeans, fingering out a cigarette that Louis quickly smacks away.

“Not during training season,” Louis admonishes, shaking a finger at him.

Zayn’s lips tremor into a crooked grin before he mouths a slow _‘fuck you asshole’_ for Louis, a rumbling laugh tickling out of his throat when Louis preens and puckers his lips for Zayn.

“What about you?” Louis asks, his voice teasingly saccharine as he passes over his tea.

Zayn takes a liberal sip to clear the stain of oversaturated coffee from his throat, a flicker of wind and heavy sun casting across his face as they idle between buildings. He thumbs slices of fringe from his eyelashes before shrugging.

“M’fine, Lou. I don’t need a shag or summat.”

Louis’ lips quirk in that doubtful little grin he always shoots at Zayn when they’re chatting about Zayn and sex.

(Well, Zayn and any aspect of his love life, actually. Those little wasted moments where Zayn pretends he can live off of fantastic art and a great novel and expensive coffee, without the need of fingers crawling up his skin and a warm mouth making him shudder.

Like pretending to be pretentious and a bit of a hipster isn’t what he promised his mates back home he wouldn’t become.)

“Liar,” Louis says with a smirk, nicking back his coffee from Zayn’s long fingers.

Zayn snorts, tilting his head to the sun. “Fuck off, man.”

“C’mon, you tit. Not even from the pup?” Louis inquires, leaning on his toes to shove his mocking smile into Zayn’s cheek.

Zayn knocks him back with a hard elbow, rolling his eyes. “No.”

“But he’s so strong.”

“Fuck you,” Zayn bites out, narrowing his eyes.

“And the kid has incredible hands.”

“You’re a disease,” Zayn scowls.

“Plus he looks at you like you’re the fucking sun which is, I dunno, kind of strange. Or ironic? Am I using that word right?”

“I don’t give a fuck ‘cause you’re a horrible best mate and I fucking loathe you,” Zayn grumbles, knocking the bottom of his pack for another cigarette.

“Does that mean _‘I love you’_ in another language?” Louis asks, quick hands (Zayn sometimes forgets Louis has spent most of his life practicing his reflexes to become some sort of genius volleyball player) sweeping in to steal the cigarette.

He slides it behind his ear with this smug smirk that Zayn wants to knock off with a fist.

Instead, he huffs a loud breath and leans back into the gold halo of sunlight peaking high in the lush blue sky.

“We have rules,” Zayn sighs, avoiding the incredulous glare Louis shoots him, “and that’s why ‘m not shagging some fresher on our shitty volleyball team. No matter how fit he is.”

Louis cackles, leaning back on his heels, his loose vest whipping about like a ragged flag in the wind.

“He is quite fit.”

Zayn scrunches his nose, breathing out a quiet laugh. “Idiot.”

Louis gives him a halfhearted shrug, draining the last of his tea. “So you’d fancy him if he was just an ordinary university lad then?”

Zayn lifts his brow and, well, he hasn’t considered it.

(not entirely except for that one moment between sketches and that intro to literature and philosophy book he borrowed from the library – a cold afternoon under a grey sky thinking about meeting Liam like this)

(without the volleyball and the alcohol – just under a heavy sky and Liam stumbling up with a dumb smile, those coffee brown eyes steady on Zayn for hours)

“Nope,” Zayn huffs.

“Because you’re a complete wanker and plan on spending the rest of your life pulling off in the loo at cheap sex clubs?” Louis wonders, still leaning back on his heels.

Zayn punches him, soft and without much heat, and barks a laugh at the way Louis stumbles without the momentum behind it.

“I’m sure he’s a cool dude,” Zayn shrugs, biting over his lip. “I’m just not interested, bro. Like, I’ve got school and the team – “

Louis scoffs loudly and Zayn considers punching him again.

“ – and I’d be no good f’r him, anyway. I’d just muck up his first year here and break his heart when I have t’ focus on courses or summat. Then what would the team do?”

Louis raises his brow, a slightly condescending smile shoved all over his mouth when he replies, “Um, move the fuck on? Honestly, Malik, we love you and all but it’s not like anyone thinks you give a shit if we win or lose.”

Zayn fakes an astonished expression and they snort together, brushing their shoulders and sighing out the last of a tangled breath.

“But seriously,” Louis says, furrowing his brow a little and all of the streaming rays overhead cast warm shadows over his sharp features, “You think he’s fairly cool, right?”

Sharp teeth drag along Zayn’s bottom lip before he half-shrugs for Louis.

“Sure.”

“Brilliant,” Louis beams, quickly gripping Zayn’s shoulders, giving them a sharp squeeze before nodding at something behind Zayn. “Bloody fantastic, mate, ‘cause he’s coming up right now and I can’t afford to have you being a dick to our new star setter.”

Zayn barely has a moment to register the words, shifting around with Louis’ cackle undercut by the warm wind before Liam slips into his vision.

Liam with his oversized hoodie and matching wide pink smile and round cheeks pressing up into his crinkled eyes. His joggers hanging low on his waist and high top trainers scuffing all on the sidewalk as he comes closer. Pink cheeks and accelerated breaths, the sun scratching across his skin and turning him almost bronze.

(Zayn thinks he’s sort of _beautiful_ , spotted with sweat and barely shaking that sixth form youth, like this and it’s a tentative thought like touching fresh blown glass.)

“Hey,” Liam breathes out, dragging his sleeve across his forehead to clean off the sweat.

Zayn curls his lower lip under his teeth, words somewhere in his sternum.

Louis nudges in, clapping hands on Zayn’s shoulders, brushing the edge of his deceptive smile across Zayn’s stubble.

“Leemo,” he grins, fingertips pressing into Zayn’s tendons, “what a beautiful surprise. Wonderful, innit Zayner?”

Zayn sighs softly, steadying his eyes to the ground. Briefly, he wonders if his feet are anchored to this spot or if maybe he could just walk away.

Just fucking elbow Louis out of the way and avoid Liam (and that rabbit pace of his heart, too) all the way back to his room.

“Leeyum,” Zayn starts and Louis wheezes a laugh in his ear before the other words can catch on his tongue.

“Leeyum?” Louis squawks, still garbling a chuckle. “Oh, lovely,” he sneers, lifting his brow with his mad smile.

Zayn wrinkles his nose, gnawing down on his lip to silence the _‘fucking prick’_ plastered to the roof of his mouth. He peeks up through his eyelashes, catching a hint of sun slipping down the soft slopes of Liam’s face.

“I was just out with, um,” Liam motions behind him to some small university café with stone tables and wooden benches and a girl with smooth skin like milk and honey. “Having a bite between classes. Y’know, just mucking about for a bit.”

Zayn studies the girl – tawny hair swept into a messy bun, angles and features like a cover girl. Doe eyes, shiny lips, the sort of girl Zayn thinks Liam would fall for.

Quietly attractive and neon appeal. A stack of books in front of her, coffee wasting away by her fingertips.

“Sounds bloody ace, right Zayner?” Louis says, his voice still bordering on teasing though Zayn isn’t certain Liam hasn’t picked up on it.

“Yeah?” Liam wonders, scrubbing a hand over those buzzed prickles, down to the back of his neck.

“We should join you, yeah?” Louis offers and Zayn freezes under the pressure of his hands.

He almost jolts and runs. Anything to get away.

“Alright,” Liam says a little too happily, his eyes starting to crinkle again. “I mean, like. It’s nothing, really. Just sat with Jade and stuff but – yeah, um, it’d be cool?”

“Amazing, Leemo,” Louis answers before Zayn can drag the harsh _‘no’_ that’s been sticking to the back of his throat for seconds now.

Liam nods quickly, turning on his heels. Zayn exhales softly and he swears Louis shoves him all the way through the grass to that small table before he gives in, flopping down opposite Liam and Jade with a thoughtfully blank expression.

“Oi, you got ‘em to come over,” Jade grins, teasing a few fingers over Liam’s obviously blistered pink cheeks. “Look at you.”

“Shut it,” Liam sighs, shoulders coming up, teeth instinctively grabbing his lower lip. He keeps his eyes low, shy and reserved, hardly the confident boy Zayn remembers somewhere on the court a fortnight ago.

“I was sure Li was shitting me when he said he was making friends with some of the team,” Jade giggles, fluttering eyelashes making Liam duck his head to hide his abashed smirk. “He was quite the popular nerd back home but _here_? I reckoned he’d never fit in.”

Louis echoes a laugh, loud and electric as he reaches over to steal a few of Liam’s untouched chips.

“He’ll never be quite as nerdy as Zayner,” Louis assures, his smile stained in grease and salt when he looks at Zayn.

Zayn scowls at him, tilting his head when Liam clears his throat.

“I think he’s rather cool, actually,” Liam says with a tiny shrug.

“You would,” Jade says, snickering into her coffee and there’s something insinuating on the surface of her tone before Liam groans.

“Will you be quiet,” he huffs, his lips sliding slowly into an awkward smile.

Jade snorts, offering up a careless shrug before stealing a handful of chips for herself.

Zayn watches them carefully – the slide of her fingers over the ink on the back of Liam’s wrist. The soft way Liam leans into her when he laughs. The edge of her smile whenever he talks, dramatically mocking his accent when he’s not looking. Their fingers colliding over chips, Jade flicking the end of Liam’s nose when he knocks her hand away with a giggle.

(This acidic taste at the back of Zayn’s throat because they’re so obvious. Under his skin, that familiar feeling he hasn’t touched since secondary school and crushing on the same girl Danny was fancying.)

“The lads are quite fond of Payno already,” Louis insists and Zayn’s missed half of the conversation but, under the table, Liam’s foot is nudging along his ankle to draw him back in.

A subtle lift of fuzzy eyebrows like _‘are you alright’_ is on Liam’s lips but Zayn never bothers to focus long enough.

“S’ppose it helps that he’s brilliant on the court,” Louis adds, trading looks between Liam and Zayn.

Something sharp and pink stretches over Liam’s cheeks and Zayn tilts his chin to hide his pout.

(Fucking schoolboys.)

“Get in,” Jade smirks, leaning into Liam. “Can’t wait to see you play.”

“First game is Friday,” Liam shrugs, twisting an arm around her back. “You’re coming right?”

“Oi, wouldn’t miss it,” Jade cheers, reaching up to teasingly pinch one of his cheeks. “Leigh has been absolutely _dying_ to go to a uni game. Probably can’t wait to give me a proper snog behind the bleachers, the slag.”

They fall into each other again, foreheads pressed together, eyes starting to crinkle just at the edges –

“Leigh?” Zayn stammers out.

(in his peripheral, he can see Louis raising his eyebrows and Liam’s mouth curves just enough to be offensive but Zayn’s too distracted by Jade’s wide eyes)

Jade cocks her head against Liam’s shoulder, an uneven wrinkle between her eyebrows when she stares at Zayn for a moment.

“Leigh-Anne,” she amends, giving a one-shouldered shrug. “Me girlfriend. We just started dating over the summer, actually. Lovely girl. She studies Natural Sciences here.”

“Oh, I thought,” Zayn pauses, this hollow hitch in his breath so noticeable under three sets of eyes studying him like a lab experiment.

(but he only catches Liam’s – these soft, curious eyes like stained mahogany that are a bit drowsy, traceable laughter lines at the corners where his eyelashes fade off)

“Sorry,” he mumbles, not for anyone in particular, ducking his head.

“Christ, Malik,” Louis hisses, the start of a laugh catching the end of his words.

“Oh,” Jade gasps, giggling into her palm. “You thought – “

“I didn’t,” Zayn mutters quickly but the shake of his hand on the table gives him away.

Louis’ laugh is noisy and impulsively affectionate next to Zayn’s ear, a hand squeezing his thigh under the table, a gentle trainer still nudging along his ankle like its keeping time with Zayn’s stupid heartbeat. Helplessly, he looks up through his eyelashes to glance over Liam’s smile stretching into a smug one.

It draws up the corners of Zayn’s mouth because, fuck, he feels like someone has inked _pathetic_ and _predictable_ across his forehead.

“Oi, me and this one? Christ, never,” Jade laughs, nuzzling into the space just under Liam’s jaw. “I went to school with this one. Him and Andy. Practically grew up in their backyards.”

Zayn’s teeth drag over his lip and he keeps this unsteady gaze with Liam. Nervous, quick flashes of something behind their eyelashes. The way Liam’s birthmark shifts when he swallows and the smear of pink running down his neck, under the collar of his hoodie like he’s embarrassed by all of this.

He is more than certain, by the prickling heat under his own skin, Zayn probably looks the same.

“He had his chance,” Jade continues, elbowing Liam until he stammers out of their stare. “Bloody mucked it up just before sixth form. Didn’t even ask me to the spring formal, the twit.”

“Hey,” Liam laughs, dragging the noise into her hair. “You had Jordan.”

Jade rolls her eyes, a playful smear of a smile over bubblegum lips. “Didn’t mean I didn’t want you to _ask_ , you donut,” she pouts. “Can’t a girl have both?”

Liam snorts. “Obviously, neither of us were your type.”

“Yes, well,” Jade shrugs like it’s enough. She sighs, leaning back into his chest.

(Under the table, Zayn shifts until his ankle presses to the arch of a foot and fingertips sneak up his denim, catching Zayn’s own fingers on the inseam of his jeans. A loose tangle like they need something else to keep the link.

A few words, possibly.

A quiet confirmation.)

“Fascinating,” Louis smirks and, even if Jade and Liam can’t tell, Zayn can hear the patronizing in his voice.

“But Zayn, right?” Jade asks, her voice going saccharine and flirty in seconds as she leans over the table, “tell me all about _you_.”

Zayn startles a little. Louis is still wheezing a laugh next to him, mumbling a string of _‘you were actually jealous you like him already naming the pup fucking hell’_ with a mouthful of chips. The sun manipulates the daylight around them, thorny shadows along the pavement.

“Well,” she continues, nudging Liam, “all the things Liam hasn’t already said.”

The blush is instant – down Zayn’s neck, rushing Liam’s cheeks – and Zayn usually finds things like this frustrating. He doesn’t like the teetering around. The maddening games.

He’s not a –

Zayn can’t focus enough to know what he is. Under the table, hidden away, his fingers shift around Liam’s and that bite of warmth he keeps avoiding gets louder, brighter like neon lasers.

And it’s all he focuses on while Jade and Louis trade stories about Zayn and Bradford and the shit volleyball team they just can’t seem to avoid.

 

||

 

Zayn’s thumbing through the Ultimates this time, dragging fingers over Madureira’s artwork in a locker room he can remember by scent alone – always pharmacy-cheap body spray and sweaty socks and the gross smell of boy ebbing off every corner. On a bench with his head low, half-dressed in a familiar blue uniform that still fits a little loosely.

(with a number _‘4’_ and a capitalized, bold-printed _‘MALIK’_ to match)

He can already hear the pound of an opening night crowd – the usual hundreds of university students and alumni who always cheer them on.

Even when they’re losing.

(They’re _always_ losing.)

They’re always there, stuffed together in the bleachers, this ocean of blue university shirts and jumpers. Manic spectators rooting on the home team. Barking at the referees for a bad call or hissing at the other school just for a reaction. Keeping their chins lifted, even after a loss, wolf whistling when the team huddles in the center of the court – they’re problematic heroes in Cambridge uniforms.

But it’s that solidarity (like rooting for the scrawny would-be-hero against a giant and his army) that drags an electric pulse of adrenaline under Zayn’s skin. It scratches a spark, a roaring flame that Zayn can’t seem to get rid of.

The one that’ll burn through him, from the bench, watching this scrappy bunch of runts lose.

He can only hear half of the boys chanting dumb lines from Taylor Swift songs, knocking about, all of it fuzzing through his mind with one earbud humming _‘when I see the beams of those huarache lights I know every single thing will be just right’_ over everything else.

A pair of clean trainers scuffs right in front of him and he barely lifts his eyes before four bold chevrons slide into his view.

“You’re not dressed for the game?” Liam says, lips tipping into a distinguished frown. There’s a knot between his eyebrows, his head tilted as he stands over Zayn.

“No,” Zayn says slowly, chewing the inside of his mouth when Liam pouts. “What for?”

“Because, like,” Liam shrugs, squeezing a practice ball between his hands. “I mean, the game starts in twenty minutes. Aren’t you gonna, um, I _thought_ – “

Zayn stretches lazily. “Liam,” he says, pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth when Liam’s shoulders drop. “I’m not – “

“Oi, bugger off Payno,” Andy laughs, leaning shirtless against a metal locker. “Malik’s not getting any game time. Leave ‘im be.”

“He’s a bright one,” Stan adds. “Why bother getting dressed when you’re not going to play? It’s what he always does.”

“Cheers, mate,” Ashton salutes, chasing Calum around the benches with a cracking towel.

Zayn licks the dryness from his lips, leaning back. He doesn’t comment or mock any of them. It’s true, every bit of it. And he’s not slightly angry about any of it.

(not one bit, but – )

“It’s cool,” he shrugs when Liam stays quiet, fingertips gone white from squeezing the ball between his palms too tightly. “It’s kind of peaceful. Catch up on me reading and stuff.”

He lifts his graphic novel for emphasis but his put upon grin doesn’t seem to fade the disappointment crowding Liam’s eyes.

“But you’re so good,” he says, under his breath, flicking his eyes to the space between Zayn’s trainers on the ground.

“You’ll do fine, mate,” Zayn replies with a foot nudging Liam’s. He waits to catch the edge of Liam’s eyes before stretching out his smile. “First game, yeah? Big match. C’mon. You’ve got to be going mad on the inside.”

Liam gives him a small shrug, chewing along his smile. “A little bit.”

“A little bit,” Zayn echoes, chuckling. “Gonna be amazing, man.”

Liam nods gently but that hint of reservation, too much apprehension caught in his knuckles and the set of his jaw stands out to Zayn.

(And he almost reaches up to fix Liam’s jersey or pepper a kiss to his cheek or tell him he fucking remembers everything from that night but –

Zayn was never a fan of Shakespeare or Romeo. He’s always preferred Jane Austen and Darcy.

It’s mostly why he doesn’t react to Liam’s pout or the itch under his skin to reach up.)

“You’ll be watching?” Liam asks, his voice cracking with excitement.

Zayn gives him an offbeat shrug, lifting up his book again. “When ‘m not reading, alright?”

It’s subtle – the flare of discontent – in the flash of Liam’s eyes but it disappears quickly when Liam nods, still biting his lip.

“See you out there, Zaynie.”

Zayn wrinkles his brow for a second, a thickness in his throat he can’t swallow, but he brushes it all off.

He looks back down at the neatly drawn comic book panels, whispering, “I’ll be watching, Leeyum.”

 

||

 

They’re halfway through the second set and it feels a little bit like the first –

Zayn plays in the second rotation, filling in to give Andy a rest. For three rotations, Paddy keeping him out of the back row in favor of Niall. They can’t seem to get a rally anywhere – playing some amateur club from Edinburgh, who keeps tracking all of their moves.

But it’s their first real game of the season.

The crowd is losing some of its roar, subtle cheers and applause whenever Andy makes a decent play or when Danny gets a kill. There’s some wild fascination whenever Liam steps up to the service line, a hundred eyes watching him like a northern start starting to shine.

He’s already aced four serves in the first set, two in the second.

(Admittedly, Zayn can’t look away either. He watches Liam set the ball to Andy or a high toss to Danny, grinning into Harry’s shoulder every time they make a quick play.

He’s endearing and just a little arrogant when the opposite setter can’t keep up.)

And Louis keeps the student section loud, making faces and growling at the other team whenever he makes a save. He’s a caged fireball – staggering over the court, bruising his body to make a save, his shouts echoing into the rafters when they score a point.

But they’re still losing. Ten points down. The atmosphere is a dull void of mumbled noise every few plays.

The other team is reading Danny’s predictable spikes, creating a massive wall to block all of Andy’s line shots. They can’t keep up with Harry’s quickness – he and Liam moving like gear shifts down the net. There’s no counter when Harry sprints behind the setter, Liam tossing high balls to him when everyone is watching Andy instead.

(And Niall’s float serve keeps the offense out of place – his crooked grin teasing the crowd whenever he steps to the line.

He’s a cheap flirt but no one complains, not even Louis – even if he keeps grumbling _‘fucking leprechaun with his stupid eyes’_ each time he passes the bench.)

There’s a timeout and a huddle a few yards away, Zayn busying himself with William Blake rather than the nerves he can feel radiating off of Liam when he hears –

“Coach,” Liam says, his voice shuttled with pants and anxiety, “we need to switch our offense up some.”

Zayn lifts his head as Paddy cocks an eyebrow at Liam.

“Payne?”

“Dude, shut it,” Luke hisses, nudging Liam’s hip.

Liam stands a little taller, dragging the back of his wrist against his skin to clear the sweat from his brow.

“Just for a few plays? I think,” Liam pauses, refusing to buckle under Paddy’s hard stare. “I think, um, it’d be good to bring Zayn back in. Lemme confuse ‘em for a bit.”

“You’re bloody mental,” Ashton hisses and there’s a few unannounced groans around the huddle but Paddy –

He brushes his thumb along his chin like he’s contemplating. That stoic look he always gets when he’s mulling over a strategy or scouting the other team. Careful, considerate.

Hard eyes lining up with Zayn for a flash before –

“Malik! Get in. Riach – sit it,” he barks, his jaw square and tense when a few of the other players cluck their tongues. “Samuels, run decoy. Let’s see what Payne can do.”

Andy mops thick strands of hair out of his face, scowling in disbelief.

“Game on, bro,” Niall smirks, clapping Zayn on the shoulders. “Give ‘em hell, mate.”

Zayn stiffens on the bench. His favorite island in this echoing gym. His spot. Where he planned to be sat for the next hour of the game.

There’s something heavy surrounding his bones. His teeth bite nervously along his lip, even when Louis thumps a playful punch into his shoulder when he passes. He feels reluctant and this hyperactive star in his gut, radiating anxiety, keeps growing like the sweat slicking his palms.

“Let’s go Malik,” Paddy grunts, folding his arms. There’s a teetering smile at the corner of his mouth before he adds, “We’ve a game to win.”

The pressure coils around his spine like a spring when he shuffles onto the court. He drags a damp hand down his face, this awkward sphere of eyes on him from all around the gym when he takes Danny’s place on the left side. Everything in his head is loud, loud, loud like mad sounds until that first whistle for the serve and then –

“Let’s go Sporting Blue! Let’s give ‘em a show!” Louis shouts with a wild smile, the same chant he’s barked between serves every game since Zayn made the team.

And then that rush of _calm_ settles around Zayn’s bones, cooling the adrenaline enough to breathe a few quick breaths.

The serve from across the net floats and wobbles but Louis passes it up easily, diving to catch it. It spirals up to Liam and Zayn spots the block moving in on Andy, ready to jump.

He’s barely enough time to blink before the ball is springing from Liam’s fingers –

Like in practice. A decoy. Andy leaping and the other team following while Liam back sets the ball high, the spotlights overhead hiding it for a moment before it drops quickly.

It fits in Zayn’s palm for a bare second. A pulse where all of his momentum spins it down to a corner of the court on the other side of the net. _In_.

The ball bullets through the air and fucking lands in.

“Point Cambridge!”

The announcer’s voice echoes and the crowd crackles like late bonfires in the night – a roar that starts low until you’re close enough to feel the heat over your skin.

Zayn’s still blinking, fingertips caught in the netting, his breaths a whole half a second behind his heartbeat –

 _Oh_.

He’s swallowed into a small huddle, back slaps and hands ruffling his top knot while he keeps his head bowed, hiding all of the wonder in his grin. He stares at their dirty trainers and soaks in their adrenaline like it’s his own. His eyes lift for a half-second and find a pair of earthy ones staring at him, a cotton candy smile that he can’t quite escape –

(even when he’s not _looking_ for it – )

“Massive job, Malik,” Calum says with a crookedly cheeky smile.

“Crushed it, mate,” Louis agrees, his sweaty hair falling into his eyes.

Andy gives him a small punch, a half-grin like it’s burdening him to even bother trying.

“Again? Quicker set maybe?” Liam suggests and there’s a series of nods all around but Zayn’s still a little too dizzy, lightheaded from the rush.

“Serve ‘em nice Samuels,” Louis smirks, a sharp crack of his hand against Andy’s bum as they pull apart.

“Fucking wanker,” Andy laughs, strolling to the service line with his shoulders pulled back like a gladiator stepping into the arena.

Zayn stumbles into position, shifting over this time, smearing the sweat off his face, his tongue darting over his lips.

“Hey,” Liam calls, his lips shifted up into a taunting smile like he owns his confidence out here.

Almost like he’s someone else, the softness still visible under the lights.

His eyes crinkle and Zayn breathes for a long second because he’s still Liam. Still a helplessly nervous boy with a dumb smile and this glow from the excitement, the awe.

“Don’t get used t’ it, alright?” he teases, turning his head to watch the other team.

(or to hide his blush from Zayn but Zayn’s not sure – not yet.)

Edinburgh struggles with Andy’s serve, fumbling the ball over the net for Louis to slide in for a save. One of the blockers tries to follow Zayn this time but he’s sluggish, almost chasing Harry instead. The ball is out of transition and Liam has to jump a little higher to set it but he tosses it with agile fingers _just right_ –

Zayn swings at it with a little more force, into the hands of the block, rebounding out of bounds and –

“Point Cambridge!”

Louis charges him this time, swinging him off of his feet with a wild laugh that Zayn echoes. He stumbles back into a pair of strong, recognizable arms – four bold chevrons and tan skin and artful fingers – and he exhales something that tastes like happiness when he feels the soft pressure of Liam’s lips behind his ear.

“Amazing, babe,” Liam whispers with a smile Zayn can’t see but he can _feel_ it.

(In every vertebrae, like goosebumps chasing a high, slipping down the knots of his spine.)

“I was lucky,” Zayn laughs, the rest of the players already crowding them.

(And it takes him minutes to mute the sound of Liam’s giggle in his head and to calm the throb in his blood after he rotates out for Niall to serve in his spot.

It takes him a few sips of Gatorade and Paddy standing over him between serves, a blank expression and hard eyes before he says, “Don’t get comfortable, Malik. You’re starting next set.”)

(It takes him the rest of the game before all of his organs and thoughts settle back into a comprehensible state.)

 

||

 

(It’s like a scratch of ink. The start of a mark.

And Zayn won’t admit it but he absently thinks a boy with a buzz cut and sugary lips and the taste of leftover beer created that first scratch.)

 

||

 

There’s an expected hush in the locker room after they lose.

It’s heavy, thickening around all of the steam from the showers and the way the entire team moves lazily through the small spaces without words. With nothing but slumped shoulders and hanging heads and the _quiet_.

This dense, dense quiet.

Zayn watches from his anchored spot on one of the benches, a towel slung loosely around his neck, his messy hair falling right into his eyes. Droplets from the shower crawl down his skin, dripping from the ends of his hair. He stares at Louis disappearing into his music (his same repeated playlist of old Queen and top forty tunes to calm his nerves), Andy pressing a heavy bag of ice to his shoulder, Niall bandaging his knee, Calum swapping a smelly jersey for a dirty singlet.

Liam, further down the bench, still half-dressed in his uniform, staring at the floor and his shaking hands defenselessly.

It’s like gravity bearing down on him – the pressure. Like he’s failed each of them. Like he needs a cigarette and the smoke in his lungs to burn off the failure throbbing through his blood.

(He never feels like _this_ – he never feels the loss. He never invests in the games or a victory. He’s always sat on the bench for most of the match, thumbing through comic books and studying and ignoring every inch of _‘good sportsmanship’_ his old coaches used to teach him.

He doesn’t _try_ like Louis or feel that ache along his palm like Andy from spiking the ball.

He’s never wanted a win to feel _relevant_.

Zayn doesn’t let the sharp sting of a loss burn in his belly.)

He sniffs and lets his head hang between his shoulders to bury this need to punch something.

To fucking turn over a table and yell because –

Zayn’s never felt like _drowning_ after losing a match.

It soaks the room until he can almost taste the toxic flavor of tension. Just a pulse between low exhales and bare feet shuffling on the cold ground. No one really looking at each other until –

It starts with a hum. No, wait –

It starts with _Louis_ (and Zayn thinks things like this always start with a Louis and a smile and a little bit of chaos) and a soft hum.

An offbeat noise, his head nodding, giant headphones on his ears before he’s getting louder. He’s turning electric and neon as he thumps out the rhythm on the metal locker doors. His own loud steel drum.

His voice is a light tenor, completely out of tune but still shamelessly noisy. It startles a laugh out of Calum, Ashton joining in. A cackle from Niall before Harry’s grinning from the corner, curls still tugged into a ponytail, lips chapped and cherry.

“Is he taking the piss?” Andy asks with a half-laugh when Louis smirks. “You’re fucking mad, Tommo.”

“Bugger off!” Niall barks, crowing in just a pair of pants, his pale skin bruised from sliding all over the hardwood floor.

There’s a chorus of cheers, towels snapped at Louis before he climbs up onto one of the empty benches in nothing but a fluffy towel around his waist and scars of ink on display when he tugs off his headphones. Harry hops up with him in a towel and clinking necklaces, Calum squeezing in to Louis’ left in tight pants stitched with frilly hearts.

Niall’s howling, Ashton stripping off his shirt to swing it above his head and the locker room fills with a noisy _‘hey I just met you and this is crazy but here’s my number so call me maybe,’_ completely out of tune and amusing.

Zayn leans back, pressing his own smile into his shoulder, watching Danny leap into the fold with that nasally laugh he’s had since they were schoolchildren.

From a corner of his eye, he can see Liam biting his lip, ducking his head, humming a soft _‘it’s hard to look right at you baby but here’s my number’_ in this baritone that calms Zayn.

And the thunder of all of the voices shouting _‘so call me maybe’_ reignites that adrenaline Zayn’s been running from.

It’s ridiculous and they’re something like a riot. They’re a bunch of blokes standing on locker room benches in nothing but towels and tight pants with their arms raised in the air like they’ve just won something.

Like fucking kings of the court.

And right there, caught on his anchor, Zayn feels almost ready to drown at sea with this misfit gang.

 

||

 

The plum sky above campus is lit by stars winking in an angular pattern. Everything in late September looks orange-gold, even at night, even on a Friday when the campus is mostly quiet from another team loss. It’s the leaves changing colors and the early October pumpkins sat outside of buildings and the street lamps changing hues to bathe everything in tangerine.

Zayn’s tugged into a dark blue Cambridge hoodie, arms swimming in the sleeves and bulky cotton keeping him warm. His shoulderbag pulls tension along his chest, hands shoved into his jeans, boots clunking along the sidewalks.

It’s a lazy walk back to his university hall, one he usually reserves for small chats with Louis about the match or classes or some bird Louis’ found interesting this week.

But tonight is quiet and solo.

He likes it this way – just a dark sky and his thoughts.

And Liam, in the distance, calling for him in this oddly familiar ( _happy_ ) voice.

Zayn sniffs, adjusting his bag, trying to keep his shoulders from dropping when he turns to watch Liam jogging up.

(He’s already memorized those lines around Liam’s eyes and the way his jaw looks soft when he smiles bit it still shocks him how it all stands out in the night.)

“Hey,” Liam says, breathless.

Zayn shrugs, dragging his tongue over his lips, pulling in his lower one with his teeth. He stares at Liam, shoving down all of these angry words because –

Liam made him care. The match, the team, the fucking loss. Volleyball was just a scholarship – a way out.

And this boy with the prickly hair and wide eyes made him give a shit.

“Did I – um, are you alright?” Liam asks when their silence echoes louder than the night.

Zayn bites the edge of his tongue and swallows the tart _‘fuck off’_ he can’t bother to shout at Liam.

(Because Zayn is pathetic and predictable and Liam is defenseless like this.)

“It’s just a match,” Zayn finally huffs, the annoyance burning up his blood. “Just a fucking match. And a sport, man. Like. It’s s’pposed to mean nothing. I’m not meant to go completely mad over it but I can’t stop thinking about it.”

Liam nods slowly like he’s trying to wrap his mind around all of Zayn’s short outbursts and that’s it.

He hates the way Liam tries to _understand_ and is so compassionate and oblivious all at once.

“I was fucking fine,” Zayn bites, half-turning away. He squeezes his eyes shut until the starbursts behind his lids cease.

“I didn’t need it, Leeyum. I didn’t fucking want it.”

Liam hums quietly next to him. A sure hand brushes up his waist, under the hem of that bulky jumper until cold fingertips press into Zayn’s hip.

Zayn shivers for a moment before pressing back into the touch. It evens his breaths until he can blink his eyes open again.

“They’ll do better,” Liam whispers.

Zayn’s shoulders drop and his heart picks up just a little. A loud beat that mutes all of his thoughts.

“I can’t believe you got me out there,” Zayn hisses, almost jerking away from Liam’s touch. Instead, he curls his fingers around Liam’s wrist to find his pulse – to find a new anchor to latch onto.

“They were good without me,” he adds, deeper, sadder.

Liam’s grin is crooked when he looks at Zayn. His fingers (warmer, agile) squeeze along Zayn’s hip, just above the band of his briefs until Zayn stares at him through his eyelashes.

“You had the most kills out there tonight, man,” Liam offers, thumbing at a tattoo he can’t see. “You’re amazing whether you want to be or not, babe. I guess that sucks, yeah?”

Zayn exhales loudly and every inch of him that wants to burrow into his anger can’t when Liam shoots him this daft smile with bright eyes. He just _can’t._

“You’re a bit of an asshole, y’know,” Zayn sighs with hot fingertips still crawling over the inside of Liam’s wrist.

Liam gives him a childlike shrug, laughing. “Andy says that sometimes, but usually only when he’s in a bad mood. Or when I’m right about something.”

Zayn hums an approving noise, lips tricked into a grin when Liam leans in.

“Am I right ‘bout somethin’ Zaynie?”

“Nope.”

“Really?” Liam wonders, his mouth folding into an artificial frown.

Zayn groans and knees him, dragging closer when he almost loses the touch of Liam’s fingers.

They laugh and stumble into each other until there’s only centimeters between them. Shared oxygen and Liam’s goofy smile so close that it turns fuzzy in Zayn’s sight. There’s no one around to watch them. Zayn can feel it in Liam’s muscles, the way he relaxes and grows comfortable pressed to Zayn.

(That mild arrogance like he’s owning his confidence again and Zayn can’t help the way his cock starts to thicken at it.)

It should be more ( _much, much more_ ) than a flutter of Liam’s eyelashes and Zayn dragging his tongue across his dry lips to encourage this but it’s not.

Nothing about it is poetic or like those film scene kisses – it just happens.

Liam kisses him, full lips and smooth tongue and unpracticed technique. He’s a little rushed like they’ll be caught – or like Zayn might back off before Liam can savor it. There’s nerves in his jaw, his kiss a little exhausting in the attempt but Zayn ( _fuck_ ) finds it so amusing.

He laughs and then moans when Liam fits his tongue between Zayn’s lips. His fingers crawl up Liam’s shoulder, catching his jaw, teaching him. Slowing the shift, wadding in the waves.

Liam’s a little bit like cream in his coffee – sugary but necessary. It takes away the edge, the bite that Zayn usually reserves for forgettable moments.

(And, suddenly, Liam doesn’t feel as much like a _fuck of a night_ like he’s supposed to.)

Zayn pulls back with his teeth gently tugging on Liam’s lower lip, swiping away the flavor, grinning.

“Sorry,” Liam mumbles, easing back on his heels, dropping his hand from Zayn’s hip. “Not quite sure that was appropriate but, um, felt like you needed it?”

Zayn snorts, watching Liam smile nervously, that sweet first-year spirit still glowing pink around his cheeks.

It’s fucking insane but Zayn reaches out to drag the flat of his hand over buzzed hair and cradles the back of Liam’s head for a moment. He ignores all of those jolts in his heart screaming _‘no, no, no you dolt’_ before he whispers, “I haven’t forgotten, babe. I still think about it.”

Liam tilts his head, confused, but there’s a flash in his eyes and then – _oh_.

Zayn grins, rolling his eyes. He pulls away but shuffles in so their shoulders touch, their hands brushing between their hips. He groans out a noise when Liam’s grin turns dopey and happy, shaking his head.

“Fucking newbie,” he laughs, the cold making his breath foggy. “C’mon. Walk you back to your hall, alright?”

Their fingers tangle between them, obscured from view by Zayn’s shoulderbag and their matching, oversized hoodies. And Liam doesn’t let go, even under the glowing street lamps like orangey spotlights and all of the dizzy students finding a reason to get drunk enough to celebrate a loss, all the way back to his hall.

(And Zayn keeps thinking of letting go because he doesn’t like attachments but – well.)

(He doesn’t let go until they’re at the front door of Liam’s hall, too shy to say goodnight without dumb smiles and embarrassingly pink cheeks.)

 

||

 

Zayn is not entirely certain how

(no – he’s fairly sure it’s because of _Louis_ – always because of Louis – that Harry tags along and Niall drags Liam with them with little protesting on his behalf)

the five of them end up crammed in his university room at half eight on a grey, rainy Tuesday after practice but, oddly, he doesn’t seem to mind.

They’re all stretched out across the room with boxes of pizza and Chinese takeaway and a bottle of cheap rum Louis’ won off the hall’s resident advisor in a shifty game of poker. There’s piles of textbooks, each of them buried in their individual studies while passing the bottle back and forth, losing focus with every hour.

Niall is star-fished on the floor with his head in Harry’s lap and his feet propped on Zayn’s mattress, whining through medical jargon while Harry steals his snapback and replaces it with long fingers along Niall’s scalp. Zayn is wedged between Liam and Louis on the bed, watching Louis munch on leftover pizza crusts while Liam bites the pink tip of his tongue as he tries to focus on some essay he’s read through a dozen times now.

(“I still don’t understand what any of this is about?” Liam whispered between forkfuls of sticky rice and sneaking glances at Zayn’s comic book collection.)

(And Zayn still can’t quite lick that smile off of his face at the image – Liam with a furrowed brow, a soft frown, grunting when he skims over a few words he doesn’t have a definition for.)

Harry’s managed to find the only indie pop radio station on campus, Zayn’s stereo straining low sets of songs no one but Harry knows but they keep humming along: _‘my house in Budapest my hidden treasure chest golden grand piano my beautiful Castillo.’_

Zayn uses it as a distraction to the soft, unforgiving fingers Liam sneaks under the hem of his shirt when no one is looking – this steady beat along his hipbone, up to his ribs, tickling his skin into little starbursts of warmth.

The solid patter of rain against his windowsill, the casting shadows overlaid by the fuzzy lantern lights in Zayn’s room. It keeps his mind from the way he wants to roll over, in front of all of them, and kiss Liam stupidly.

Because they’re not quite _there_ and he doesn’t know if they will ever be but – he just wants to watch Liam fall apart.

He wants Liam uncomfortable, shy. And then maybe he’ll stop teasing Zayn like this.

(or maybe he wants to make Liam feel bold, strong, confident – he wants to watch Liam blossom into someone unafraid to be himself in this cozy little place Zayn only ever shares with Louis)

(he wants to replace the safety net Liam falls into with his own arms just in case Liam’s not ready)

Instead, Zayn wiggles his feet to _‘and baby if you hold me then all of this will go away’_ while Louis feeds him smashed fortune cookies and sips of sugary rum.

“Fucks sake,” Louis groans, rolling away, knocking a paperback about Tennessee Williams to the floor. “How will any of this help me when I play in the world league?”

Niall muffles a laugh into his shoulder and Harry looks up with bright, bright eyes and Niall’s snapback sitting crookedly on his head, sighing, “Because when you _don’t_ make it into the FIVB – “

Louis quickly holds out a flaky pizza crust like a light saber, ready to attack, scowling at Harry before he can finish.

“You’ll need something to fall back on,” Harry finishes, half-giggling.

“Mate,” Niall snickers, buzzing as he takes a messy swig from the bottle. “You’ll crush it in the league. You’re brilliant.”

Louis gives a mild shrug, falling back into the cocoon of pillows he’s created around himself.

“Glad we got that sorted.”

Zayn rolls his eyes, stealing his teeth over his bottom lip while trying to hide the trembles Liam’s fingers create when they outline the sharp shape of his hipbone.

“Not as fantastic as me, ‘course,” Niall adds, his voice that daydream-y deepness like he’s been soaking under the sun with his feet in the ocean for hours.

“Fuck off,” Louis pouts. “You’re average.”

“You’re shit,” Niall cackles. “Quit being a tosser, y’ dick. I’ve worked hard out there.”

Louis gives another purposeless shrug, blinking up at the ceiling like he’s too stubborn to agree.

(but Zayn’s spotted the way Louis watches Niall during practices – like he’s a slow-growing snowball, a fucking avalanche two seconds from overpowering Louis’ spot on the team)

“I’m still the libero,” Louis grunts.

“For now,” Niall says a little too teasingly and Zayn bites back his laugh when Louis exhales a shocked breath.

Liam’s giggle drags under the current of _‘give me one good reason why I should never make a change’_ and Zayn turns his head just enough to see the soft outline of Liam’s profile under the shadows.

“All you blokes having a pissing contest over being a libero,” he grins, sucking on his lower lip, tossing a ball above his head and catching it with ease. “But it’s the setter that matters. The setter is the heart out there.”

“Fucking hell,” Louis moans, kicking his feet.

Niall cocks an eyebrow at Liam, nudging roughly at his ankle. “Oi, but the defense passes you the ball. You’re nothing without the lungs mate.”

Liam chews over his smile. “Maybe,” he shrugs, tossing the ball again, hands positioned so perfectly. “But setters control what’s happening. We direct the traffic.”

“Leemo,” Louis sighs, swallowing back more rum, letting it spill down his chin like liquid silver, “your prick – I mean, your _ego_ is showing, mate.”

Niall wheezes a laugh and Zayn turns slightly to hide the view of Liam’s fingers sneaking into the pucker of Zayn’s jeans, lazily dragging just above the band of Zayn’s pants like he’s considering –

Zayn flushes a little when Liam doesn’t look at him and smacks the ball away before Liam can catch it again.

“Bastard,” he whispers with a smirk.

The corners of Liam’s mouth quirk, barely, his eyebrows lifting like a challenge.

“You agree Hazza?” Niall wonders, shooting Harry an upside down smile.

Harry raises his brow lazily. “Um, well,” he drags in this slow voice that they’ve all fallen in love with

(except when Harry is telling a story – which is too often, Zayn thinks, but still)

before he giggles out a smile. “I have’ta think Payno is a bit right ‘bout this one, lads. I’m nothing without him tossing me the ball.”

“Idiot,” Louis huffs and Liam’s laugh echoes in Zayn’s ear when he takes the bottle.

“Fair play,” Niall hums, patting Harry’s cheek softly with glassy eyes. “You’re helpless without him, mate.”

“Not helpless,” Harry whines.

“Dunno,” Zayn mutters, lips twisted around the bottle, careful eyes watching the way Liam stares. His tongue flicks the excess rum from his mouth, a slow drag that makes Liam’s cheeks pink prettily. “None of that matters without the attackers. We score the points. We decide if it’s a win or a loss, mate.”

There’s a thoughtful hush in the room for a moment, just the drum of the rain and the static of the radio.

“OI, fuck off Malik and get back on the bench,” Louis finally cackles and there’s a unison of synchronized giggles all around him.

Zayn snorts into the sleeve of his half-done plaid shirt, snuggling back into a pile of pillows and Liam’s slow, deliberate touches. He lets the saccharine flavor of the alcohol coat his cells. It’s this lightweight feeling – the buzz of good rum and artistic fingers under his shirt and that drowsy feeling from the rain.

It’s like the world is suspended, this mad anti-gravity feeling of floating.

(The sort of thing he wants to blame on the buzz and the music and the rain but – )

Zayn’s lips lift halfway into a smile at the hum of Liam’s voice nearby, heavy eyes and breathy exhales leading him as he tilts his head enough to watch Liam grinning at the ceiling. This smug little smirk because no one has noticed his fingers over Zayn’s belly, gentle against the thick river of hair trailing from the lip of Zayn’s navel, skimming just a little too close to Zayn’s briefs.

That inescapable feeling of catching a stiffy in a room stuffed with four other lads. The exhibitionist under his skin – wanting to unzip, have a slow wank, dazed and tingling from the alcohol while Liam watched.

Because Zayn’s the sort of lad who learned ages ago not to give a shit about what others thought of him.

(and it’s a heavy armor he still tries to shake off in those vulnerable moments when he still feels uncomfortable at the way strangers comment on his skin and his features and how he prays)

“Bullocks,” Niall yawns, stretching out more, nuzzling further into Harry’s lap. “Could use a strong cuppa herbal right now. Buzzin’ and feelin’ quite well.”

Zayn can hear Louis’ annoyed cluck even if he’s too preoccupied by Liam’s fingers rolling up his ribs.

“You’re quite weird, bro,” he scoffs.

Niall giggles like he’s helpless with the alcohol in his blood.

“Green tea is not weird,” he argues, his voice still raspy and genuine. “I’m living quite healthy.”

“Yoga is good for you,” Harry adds.

“No one asked you, Haz,” Louis moans, blindly tossing a pillow to the floor.

“The stretches and the breathing could really help you, mate,” Niall says, leaning his head back, arching his spine like a cat. “Makes ye quite flexible and clears ye head. It helps with me knee troubles.”

“Flexible,” Louis repeats, lips easing into a sharp smile.

“Whatever,” Harry sighs, carding fingers through Niall’s thick mess of dyed hair, “I just want t’ do it for the positions, lads. C’n you imagine? Bloody incredible shagging probably.”

“Haz,” Louis whines, bolting up with wide eyes.

The momentum of Liam’s laugh – wide mouth, crinkled eyes – rolls him into Zayn’s side, his breath ghosting the line of Zayn’s neck. Zayn scoops an arm around him, grinning, still floating. Still buzzing off the radio and the _‘I want you to move California for yourself I want you to find whatever your heart needs’_ in the background of the shivering rain.

“Bloody incredible,” Niall echoes with a lopsided grin.

Harry’s cheeks flush a bright pink like sidewalk chalk but his fingers keep moving along Niall’s scalp.

“Gross,” Louis mumbles, falling back, chasing his pout with another long swallow of warm rum.

“You don’t need it f’r going on a pull or summat,” Niall shrugs, eyes fluttering shut. Blonde eyelashes beat like a hummingbird on crimson cheeks and he stretches a little more along the floor.

“Or for just a good snog,” Louis exhales. “Fuck – where’s El when I need a good handy.”

“Blokes c’n give you that too,” Harry giggles.

“Are you offering Haz?” Louis asks, still blinking rapidly at the ceiling and the scar of grey shadows along the painted walls.

Harry yelps, shivering with a bashful laugh that Niall wrinkles his nose at.

“Quit flirting,” Niall frowns, shoving his big toe into the heart of Louis’ calf.

“Stop competing,” Louis argues back.

They’re petulant children and Harry’s suddenly their favorite toy. It’s amusing – if Zayn wasn’t so lost on the way Liam’s soft breathing keeps grazing along his neck, those deft fingers blindly tracing the _‘don’t think I won’t…_ ’ etched above Zayn’s hip.

“M’not,” Niall breathes, flicking his eyes open. “I’d snog you, Tommo. Haz too.”

The tiny, breathless gasp from Liam’s lips creates a shiver under Zayn’s skin but he’s too distracted by the wide eyes Louis is giving Niall, the dreamy ones Harry flashes at both of them.

(And it’s not that any of them have said it out loud – whether they fancy girls more than boys. The last time they’ve shagged someone. The possibilities that – it’s not exactly _expected_. It’s just supposed to be laddish chats over rum and during a rainstorm.

It’s not a confessional – not entirely.)

“I’d snog you too,” Harry shrugs, pulling Niall’s fringe until it sticks up. He hiccups a noise before dragging his eyes over Louis. “You too, mate – if you weren’t like, dunno, captain or summat. A bit inappropriate.”

“Of course,” Louis chokes. “Cause, y’know, that’s the only reason you shouldn’t snog me.”

Harry shrugs again, lazy and with half-lidded eyes. “Weren’t we meant to be studying?”

Liam scoffs a laugh to Zayn’s ear this time and his own fingers graze over the swell of Liam’s bum through his joggers, dragging along the elastic just for Liam’s abashed reaction.

“But you wouldn’t snog Zayn?” Louis asks because he’s a complete bastard and habitually unafraid.

(Two things that Zayn, silently, admires about him.)

“Nah,” Niall replies, smiling cheekily. “He’s too pretty.”

Zayn sucks in a breath, coughs out a laugh, flipping Niall off when he raises his brows high into his hairline.

“Excuse you Horan,” Harry whines, curls falling around his face like a lion’s russet mane when he looks down. “I am bloody handsome too. Malik is shit next to me.”

“Oi,” Zayn smiles, his thumb finding every knob of Liam’s spine with _‘I’m a man who’s got very specific taste’_ straining off the radio. “Try not t’ be rude in my room, Styles.”

Louis curls into a ball with his wheezing laugh and Niall’s lips – chapped and very pink – cock into an endearing smile before he sneaks a hand behind Harry’s head, pressing up with one arm to smother an openmouthed kiss against Harry’s pout.

It’s a flash of tongue and disturbingly loud but Zayn doesn’t look away. Not until Liam bites his shoulder and Harry bites playfully at Niall’s bottom lip when he tries to pull away.

“Happy?” Niall sighs, his lips wetter, shiny with spit.

“Quite,” Harry grins.

“Fucks sake,” Louis groans and they all settle into a noisy laugh, too caught on the high from the alcohol and the languid feeling of the rain to sing along to the roaring _‘you know you’re just my type oh you’ve got a pulse and you are breathing’_ filling in the gaps of their restless breaths.

 

||

 

They’re mostly asleep minutes after midnight, the rain just an echo now like the noise of piano keys down an empty hall. Niall and Harry are cuddled around textbooks and abandoned pizza boxes, Harry’s fingers still caught in the thick of Niall’s hair. Louis sprawled across them like a king conquering a mountain. Liam curled around one of Zayn’s pillow with this soft (happy) expression half-hidden in the cotton, his jeans kicked off.

Shadows trace over his tan skin, lighting it silver, downy hairs on his legs curled. Socks shoved to his ankles, the slight curve of his arse in old Superman pants. His eyelashes beating the same rhythm of the rain on his cheeks – quick, fast, then impossibly slow.

Caught on a dream that Zayn wants to pick apart –

(Because he wants to know what Liam dreams about, if he thinks about Zayn. If there’s something bigger to him in this world. If there’s spaces in his thoughts beyond volleyball that Zayn can fill.)

The sky outside is heavy and dark, this sweet chill from the storm seeping through Zayn’s cracked window. There’s a blue cloud pushed out through his mouth, a cigarette caught between his dry lips. His fingertips slick with rain water, the hair on his bare forearms sticking up.

He loves moments this quiet – this thoughtful.

Another huff of smoke circling into the atmosphere. The radio still humming with the volume turned down: _‘mad sounds in your ear make you feel alright they bring you back to life.’_

Zayn blinks at the streaks of water sliding down the window. He sighs out more smoke, his mind drifting –

(To a boy. To this feeling down in his gut. This need to get up and run away.

He doesn’t need a Liam stuck in his head – some fresher who’s not completely comfortable with himself yet. Some boy who’s not out of the closet.

Zayn’s done enough hiding. There’s enough walls in his way – he doesn’t need another one.)

But his eyes blink away from the drizzle outside. He sucks in another hot breath of smoke, coughing, staring down at the boy close enough to touch.

With the flickering eyelashes, the lips curled into a smile, face shoved into one of Zayn’s pillows.

(Shoving his fucking way into Zayn’s life uninvited.)

Zayn’s spare hand skims over the round of Liam’s shoulder. His muted laugh turns grey, visible when Liam shivers. His thumb follows the bits of stubble coming in along Liam’s jaw, under his chin – the soft baby weight shedding, the sharp mature lines starting to form.

The fuck of a night turning into a _‘stay for the morning’_ and Zayn’s completely unprepared for that.

He’s unprepared for the soft clearing of Niall’s throat a little louder than Alex Turner’s voice in his ears.

“He’s quite a chilled lad – Payne,” Niall says, head propped up by a forearm, heavy eyes still blinking awake. “Startin’ to fit in a bit.”

Zayn sniffs, stares down at his hand paused under Liam’s chin. He nods slowly, lips curling into a smile around his cigarette.

“He’s trying.”

“Can’t see why he won’t jus’ be himself, y’know?” Niall rasps, struggling to get comfortable with Louis slumped across him.

Zayn bites his lip instead of responding.

“The other lads know,” Niall adds. Zayn furrows his brow, concentrating on the sound of Niall’s voice. “None of them, like. They’re not bothered by it. Or you or me or any of it. But they know, like, how Liam is about it. They don’t push it.”

Another pull of smoke, another nod. Zayn’s fingers start to move again, his thumb ghosting over Liam’s chapped pink lips.

“Do you really fancy him?” Niall asks.

Zayn bites the inside of his mouth until the smoke swirling in his throat burns up the immediate _‘no’_ he wants to shout.

(He’s not certain if it’s a lie and he knows better than to reply.)

(He knows admission is the worst part of it all.)

“He’s a cool lad,” he whispers instead, stubbing out his cigarette.

There’s shuffling on the floor and he keeps his eyes on Liam rather than wondering if Niall’s fallen back asleep. He just watches Liam, instead.

 

||

 

It’s half eleven in the middle of the week. Zayn’s midway through a revision, heavy eyes and empty cardboard cups of coffee lining his floor like a mad game of tic-tac-toe and there’s a soft knock at his door. He ignores it for the first few beats (fucking Louis Tomlinson and his sugar-high pranks because he’s too lazy to study like a _normal university bloke_ ) but it continues like the beat of a Drake tune Zayn used to love.

His sharp teeth scrape over his lower lip as he drags his feet all the way to the door, hopping around his cup diagram and stubbing a toe against a thick book about Dickens. He groans roughly, patting his pockets for his Marlboro Reds

(because in between helping Louis do childish things to the fresher players, he knows Louis will let him have a smoke and another coffee – he’s a good mate like that)

before giving up to swing the door open.

And there’s a hundred different things he’s expecting but –

Liam Payne in a cutoff shirt, slim trackies and a bright pink smile is definitely not one of them.

(even if Zayn might’ve gotten off twice – in the morning, just before his afternoon class – to the thought of shoving Liam down into his sheets and licking him wet, grinding into him until all of Liam’s pretty whimpers sounded like a choir of Zayn’s name)

“Are you mad?” Zayn asks with a hiss, a wrinkle between his eyebrows when Liam shrugs.

“Hi,” he replies, chewing a corner of his lower lip.

Zayn’s shoulders drop a little, his hand automatically dragging long, dark strands of hair from his face. “I’m studying.”

“You’re not always this rubbish to guests, are you?” Liam asks, his tone teetering on playful like –

Like he’s owning his confidence in an empty university hall where no one can watch the way he drags his eyes over Zayn, shiny lips curling into a smirk like maybe he’s thought of the same things Zayn’s had a wank over.

Zayn sighs, leaning into the doorframe. “Hi _Leeyum_.”

A softer smile, wholly genuine, twitches over Liam’s lips just before Zayn adds, “Now what the fuck d’you want?”

Liam pouts, digging his heels into the carpet.

“Um, ’sides seeing you?” Liam whispers, leaning in.

Zayn’s presses a flat hand to Liam’s chest, leveraging the distance. He’s in a right mood and playing up to Liam’s careful teasing, this itch to snog him silent because –

Fuck, because it’s what he’s wanted to do for two weeks now. Before and after practices. During their second match (where they won the first set but lost the three after) and whenever he passed Liam between classes.

At the fucking steps of the library where Liam sat with Jade, pretending to study. Pretending not to smile up at Zayn when he climbed the steps two at a time to get away.

To bloody run away from this menace.

“ _Leeyum_ ,” Zayn moans, dragging the filthy flit of his voice from the word.

(He’d done enough of that earlier, into his pillow, strong fingers wrapped around his shaft while his thumb teased the wet head of his dick into submission.)

Liam shoots him a smile, brushing a quick hand over his buzzed hair, palming the back of his neck like some sixth form student trying to gather enough courage to ask someone out.

(Zayn laughs at that, his body trembling, his own hand scratching down his shirt to settle the feeling.)

“C’mon,” Liam sighs, scuffing his shoes again. “Wanna show you something. Just, like. Can you come with me?”

“Where?” Zayn huffs, playing down the twist of his smile with his canines.

Liam leans in, cheeks a splattered pink, eyes wide like a mass of planets. “It’s a secret,” he mumbles, looking daft and dopey.

Zayn rolls his eyes automatically but he doesn’t bother to knock Liam back when he’s close enough for their noses to brush. He arches an eyebrow, daring Liam and succumbs to a breathy laugh when Liam stammers, pulling back.

Liam huffs out a restless breath, the noise dying out as he scrubs a hand over his face.

“C’mon,” he half-pleads, his auxiliary hand reaching out, twisting into a belt loop on Zayn’s jeans, a polite tug that Zayn resists. “Just give me like an hour?”

Zayn scoffs, wrinkling his nose. “I’ve an early class in the morning.”

“Me too,” Liam replies, sounding even more earnest. “An hour. I promise.”

Zayn licks and bites over his lower lip, narrowing his eyes at Liam. There’s something irresistibly quiet and gentle and trusting in his expression. His fingers keep pulling at Zayn’s jeans and the rush to mutter a _‘no’_ dies off when Liam’s smile goes nervously crooked.

“I want coffee in the morning when my lazy arse is too knackered to get outta bed,” Zayn demands, a shred of laughter in his voice as he shrugs away to grab his trainers and a university hoodie from his closet.

And over his shoulder, in the dim light of the hall, he can see Liam happily nodding and something beats out of place behind his chest –

He’s fucking pathetic and predictable.

 

||

 

They disappear into the night, the sky a black pond of stars blinking faded streams of silver. Liam leads them around the empty buildings, kicking through the dew along the grass, hands shoved in his pockets as they duck around trees. Their shoulders touch every other step, Zayn trying to keep up. There’s something wickedly endearing in Liam’s smile every time he looks up, white embers from the stars behind his eyelashes, a cherry smile stretching into his cheeks.

Liam guides them all the way to the practice gym, the night echoing low whistles of the wind and the hum of crickets behind them.

Zayn flicks an eyebrow up at him and almost asks if Liam is completely mad but soft, warm fingers wrap around his wrist (never tugging, just holding) to lead Zayn all the way behind the building. In the shadows, to an unlocked back door, Liam shyly nudging it open with cheeks made of crushed carnation petals – his nervy grin giving everything away.

“You’re a bad man, Payne,” Zayn laughs, keeping his voice hushed.

Liam gives his wrist a small squeeze – a silent _‘shut it’_ they snicker at.

They knock about through the quiet halls, their trainers squeaking and echoing like in all of those bad teen romance films Zayn’s older sister loves. Liam’s thumb draws lazy shapes over the mehndi on Zayn’s wrist as they muck around the locker rooms, hopping benches, chasing each other all the way into the empty gym.

It’s dim, cast in shadows like charcoal artwork. It’s like street graffiti with all of the greys and blacks along the empty bleachers, the netting creating these fuzzy squares all along the hardwood floors. The moon tipping in through the high windows, cascading hints of silver and pearl across the center of the room. A giant wavy spotlight that Zayn stands under with his hands shoved in the pocket of hoodie, looking around.

“We’re gonna get caught,” he huffs, trying to hide the excitement in his chest, tucking it between his ribs.

(He loves things like this – sneaking in abandon buildings, spray painting the walls, tripping over _‘do not enter’_ signs with two middle fingers raised in salute. It reminds him of back home, Bradford – of Danny.

When they were, well, _friends_ he supposes.

A long time ago, he thinks.)

“Maybe,” Liam says, somewhere in the shadows, fumbling around. “Should we leave?”

“Fuck no,” Zayn breathes, smiling up at the clipped moon.

“Good,” Liam laughs, the noise bouncing off the acoustics. “Wouldn’t quite like the idea of giving up a few pounds in the morning for a coffee if you’re not gonna, like, hear me out.”

Zayn snorts softly, turning around in wobbly circles under the light. He sniffs, peeking into the shadows.

“Is that like a date? ‘Cause I’m quite certain I don’t do that with blokes I snogged randomly at parties, mate. S’not really a thing f’r me.”

“I was random?” Liam asks, barely disguising the wounded tone of his voice as he steps out of the shadows.

He’s wheeling a tub of volleyballs behind him, eyebrows furrowed, an edgy frown sliding off his lips.

Zayn shrugs, licking his lips. “Are we gonna talk about it?”

Liam looks down for a moment, shrugging back. He clears his throat, lifting his chin, shaking out a smile.

“Not tonight,” he offers, pushing the cart closer. “Tonight is about me.”

Zayn laughs until the noise warms his chest. “A bit self-centered, babe?”

Liam’s nose wrinkles with a bright laugh, everything rolling off the acoustics like raindrops.

(Zayn’s heart hammers even harder and he doesn’t ignore it this time – he’s not terrified or uncomfortable. It’s that floating feeling again, the alcohol absent from his system, his eyes studying Liam like _he knows_ the cause, the reason.)

“The other day, in your room,” Liam says, picking up a ball, a gentle toss before catching it instinctively, “you made it seem like the setter is _just there_. Like it’s not the hardest part of the game?”

Zayn bites his lip anxiously. “Um, I didn’t mean, like, babe – “

Liam shakes his head quickly, smirking. “It’s cool. I get it. I thought the same thing, y’know. Wasn’t really a setter back in Wolverhampton – not all the time. But I sorted out how important it was later on. Thought maybe I could show you?”

“Show me?” Zayn repeats, lifting an inquiring eyebrow.

Liam nods with that same dopey smile. He tosses the ball again, catching it, scuffing his trainers as he moves in.

“Wanna show you how to set. Be in me shoes for a bit. Alright?”

Zayn crosses his arms a little defiantly, cocking his chin up. He drags his eyes across Liam, the way he’s swimming in his confidence now. That quiet ego in his smile, the endearment behind his eyes like this is all he really wants.

To teach Zayn.

“Does it honestly mean that much to you?” he asks, trying not to sound cross, sniffing when Liam blinks the stars out of his eyes.

Liam nods gently. “Yeah, it does.”

Zayn sighs, dropping his arms, reaching for the ball between Liam’s fingers.

“Alright, babe,” he concedes, running the tips of his fingers over Liam’s knuckles, fitting them between Liam’s spread ones, “but you show me first, okay? I’ll watch and you set.”

 

||

 

“You’re doing it wrong.”

“Oh, piss off, Payne. You’re an awful teacher.”

It’s nearly half one, the night still warping the gym into shadows and crystals, everything silent except for the echo of another ball falling to the ground. There’s a dozen balls spilled across the court from Zayn’s failed attempts. His trainers squeak and shuffle over the ground when Liam passes him another ball, his fingers barely latching on before the ball tumbles out of his grasp.

“Asshole,” he mumbles, kicking the fumbled ball under the net.

The tender rasp of Liam’s laugh wraps around his shoulders and stutters his heart into another affectionate thunder that he hates.

“You’re not focusing,” Liam says, a hand over his mouth to cover his giggle when Zayn flips him off. “You’ve got to find the ball. Make it go where you want, babe. You’re letting it control you ‘stead of the other way ‘round.”

Zayn rolls his eyes, scuffing his trainer into the hardwood, trying to create a streak. A little bit of anarchy to settle his anger.

“Gotta lead the ball or your hitter will never have a chance,” Liam adds, pulling up another ball, dribbling it quickly. “Ready?”

“Nope,” Zayn spits but he shakes the tension from his shoulders once more, falling into a lazy position with his arms raised.

Liam sputters a laugh, shaking his head, a gentle toss like a pro basketballer reaching for a three-pointer at mid-court.

A firmer grip this time, the ball squeaking from Zayn’s fingertips, falling behind him instead of forward.

“Fucking asshole, you’re shit at this,” Zayn mumbles to no one. He wants to shout it at Liam but he knows, under all of the layers, it’s for himself.

He’s shit and quite terrible at admitting it out loud.

“Babe,” Liam sighs, lips still twisted into a guilty smile, palming another ball without missing a breath. “Guide it, remember?”

Zayn grunts, shoulders tightening up, his spine bowed in defeat but he watches.

He watches Liam toss the ball above his own head, relaxed arms extended, hands ready. Muscles shifting under his skin when his fingers make contact, the motion like the smooth ripples of a wave. Precise fingers touching the ball for seconds before the muscles in his arms stretch out.

It’s a quick toss, the ball floating like early snowflakes in November, falling right into Zayn’s raised hands.

Liam grins across the court, his head tilting when Zayn furrows his brow.

“It’s all about the contact, babe,” Liam offers with a quick shrug.

“Are we still chatting about setting?” Zayn teases, his voice coiling around the words until he can spot the freckled blush on Liam’s cheeks in the dark.

“Stop flirting,” Liam chastises, even if it doesn’t sound believable when he grins nervously, his eyes scrunched by the momentum of his cheeks.

Zayn licks the smile off his own lips, spinning the ball between his hands until he feels brave. “Why setter?” he asks, tossing the ball back to Liam.

Liam catches it without looking, reflexes and smooth muscles distracting Zayn momentarily. He gives Zayn an offbeat shrug, tossing the ball up, setting it to himself repeatedly like he’s searching for words.

Like that confidence has dimmed under the shine of vulnerability.

“Just before the start of sixth form, our setter got hurt. Terrible shoulder thing. The team was gutted,” he explains, his tone swallowed by the noises the ball and his fingers create. “I hated seeing them let down and – well.”

There’s a pause and Zayn shuffles up, closing half of the gap, nodding at Liam encouragingly. The soft _‘go on’_ he feels in his throat is swallowed but Liam steadies his eyes on the ball, tossing it up.

“I wasn’t the star of the team or anything. I was just there,” he says, quieter, distracted. “I was a rather decent hitter. Could play a bit of defense. The coaches used me where they needed, y’know? The fill-in lad and I was quite happy about it. I was good at playing.”

Zayn gentles his lower lip between his teeth, blinking. It’s something familiar under his skin like finding old black and white photographs in the attic.

“So I practiced. I wanted to do something good for the team and stuff,” Liam continues, gripping the ball, the shadows smoothing the sharpness starting around his jaw. “I was fairly good. Impressed the coaches. Got bumped up to the starting setter after a game or two and, well.”

“Well,” Zayn repeats, his lips an uneven line, a half-smile.

Liam nods with a flustered grin. The angles blur, even in the moonlight, and Zayn frowns a little when Liam dribbles the ball closer, offering it out to Zayn with one hand.

“Again?”

Zayn rolls his eyes but the spare hand he isn’t paying attention to slides hot fingers up Zayn’s wrist, across all of the ink on his forearm, to the crook of his elbow for a strong grip. The kind of touch your heart doesn’t quickly recover from – too brilliant to forget.

“Put a little more tension in your elbows, Zee,” Liam suggests, shoving the ball at Zayn. “And your hands are all wrong.”

“Well your hands are big and stupid,” Zayn pouts but he knows it’s just his defenses. Unconsciously, he wants to swallow the words back and whisper _‘teach me’_ over and over in this breathy voice that might encourage Liam.

Liam giggles, raising his eyebrows. He doesn’t retaliate like Zayn expects. He keeps his hand firm on Zayn’s elbow and crosses behind him, shaping Zayn’s hands around the ball with his own arms cocooning around Zayn’s frame.

Strong, fluid muscles strain as he lifts Zayn’s arms, pressing his chest into Zayn’s spine. His chin hooks over Zayn’s shoulder, the bristle of his barely-there stubble to Zayn’s cheek.

“Hands, babe,” Liam instructs, molding Zayn’s fingers into position. “Stop trying t’ catch it. Control it.”

Zayn tries to coil the shivers in his limbs, the brush of something hot in his stomach when Liam presses closer, guides Zayn through tossing the ball high. Absently, he leans into it, deep breaths. Liam’s scent – citrusy body wash and washing powder and boyish heat – leaves him a little fuzzy.

“Better,” Liam grins, lips turned into Zayn’s cheek. “Stay with me.”

Zayn does. He repeats Liam’s motions, directing the ball, keeping his hands even. The moon over their shoulders creating the outline of their bodies – one single, brilliant shape over the floor.

Liam’s hands leave his, dragging down the tension in his forearms, across the flex of his biceps. To that hollow space between Zayn’s ribs, over his hips. He presses in closer until all of their muscles contact and contract with their slow breaths, the ball still bouncing from Zayn’s fingers.

Hands across his waist, thumbs skimming the slight shape of Zayn’s bum, back up to the small of his back.

“Perfect,” Liam whispers and Zayn repeats the word under his breath until the taste sweetens, sweat prickling over his forehead, the ball still volleying from his fingers.

Zayn drops it when strong fingers finally grip his waist, a firm hold. There’s a throb in his shoulders and arms from the positioning but he twists under Liam’s arm and relaxes them around his neck.

He studies the height of Liam’s cocky smile, the dare just behind his eyelashes. The arrogance that Zayn’s starting to love – hidden to everyone except Zayn.

In the shadows, where no one is watching, where Liam gets to be a little brave.

(And Zayn remembers that too – sneaking out in the middle of the night, snogging his first boy, sucking off a mate in the backyard just to get this feeling out of his blood.

This racing urge to _escape_ and be himself.)

“Not bad?” he asks, his voice stripped to this husky vibrato as he leans in.

Liam snickers, nose crinkling, his tongue darting out to lick at his smile.

“Awful,” he replies, scrubbing his palms incessantly over Zayn’s hips. “Needs practice.”

“Shut up,” Zayn huffs and he thinks courage must be inked into Liam’s blood now because he sneaks in to fumble a kiss to Zayn’s lips first.

A solid, firm snog that feels so absent of nerves this time. A sure one. Bold and openmouthed and the sweetest brush of tongue that tickles Zayn’s bottom lip. It’s hungry, stuttered moans between their lips when Liam adds more pressure, more tongue. Zayn tightens his arms around Liam’s neck to keep him there.

To drown in this rage Liam’s releasing.

His lips feel swollen and bruised when they pull apart, a choked laugh breaking through when Liam nuzzles up for a quick peck.

“C’mon,” Liam says, unable to strangle the impulsiveness in his tone. “I want to show you how to back set now.”

Zayn snorts and Liam ducks his head between them, blushing at the words just before Zayn whispers, “Are we still talking about volleyball, mate?”

“Piss off,” Liam mumbles, licking repeatedly at his lips, chasing Zayn’s taste.

Zayn nods slowly, pressing a quiet kiss to Liam’s forehead. Something simple, a little too affectionate but the regret in his bones hides behind this pulse in his heart when Liam lifts his eyes.

“You owe me a coffee,” Zayn says with a yawn, easing apart, fingers catching on the nape of Liam’s neck just for the touch and the reaction it creates.

Liam shrugs, something happy in his eyes this time. “Was worth it,” he mumbles, snatching up another ball, dribbling it between them, “to watch you muck up. You’re a dreadful setter.”

Zayn laughs and doesn’t even bother arguing. He staggers back a few steps, hands already raised above his head, focused.

“Teach me, babe.”

 

||

 

They win their third match in five sets against some overly confident club from Liverpool. The team is exhausted and sweaty afterwards but there’s something buzzing beneath their skin in the locker room. Something that vibrates in the showers, on the benches. And it’s Louis ( _always Louis_ ) who sparks the electricity into a bright noise, wailing through an old Queen song in his pants with a massive smile.

And it only takes seconds before they’re all chanting _‘this is our last dance this is ourselves under pressure’_ at the top of their lungs with Liam beatboxing in the background.

(and they destroy the next team in a four-to-one war a week later)

(they barely feel the loss to the Leeds team a few days later, winning their next two matches without a struggle)

And Zayn feels it, deep in his gut, like a fucking burning star. Too close to supernova.

He feels apart of something he can’t explain and he refuses to admit Louis was right about it all during their morning runs on the weekend.

Zayn won’t say a damn word about it.

 

||

 

“The first away game is in a few days,” Louis says around a mouthful of tea, grinning riotously with the sun glowing a hazy gold behind him.

They’re sat around one of those stone tables at the campus café Zayn thinks he’s starting to love –

(and, no, he’s certain it’s not because of nervous touches under the table and the stupid look on Liam’s face that day but – )

It’s the five of them, like it’s been for weeks now, sharing takeaway and textbooks and cardboard cups of hot tea. Yellowing leaves are starting to burn scarlet in mid-October, the wind swaying around them with the kind of chill that requires thick, cottony hoodies and beanies. The scent of pumpkins and copper, apple-y spices and all of Zayn’s favorite things at the end of the year. The grass losing some of its evergreen and the world starting to fade into this earthy hue instead of bright, clear skies.

“So? What’s the craic?” Niall asks, head bowed, tuning some acoustic guitar in his lap.

Harry feeds him leftover banana muffin bits from his fingers, rolling his eyes when Niall’s bubblegum lips wrap around the tips – both of them refusing to blush when everyone around just _stares_.

“Away games are huge,” Louis cheers, knocking Harry’s hand away with a smile. “Quit leaving me out,” he scolds before swooning just a little when Harry offers up his tea instead.

“You lot are weird,” Liam laughs, hugging himself, nudging just a little closer to Zayn.

Reflexively (and maybe mistakenly), Zayn shrugs an arm around Liam’s back, feels him go tight at the motion. He bottles down the sigh he wants to breathe out, keeping his arm firm until Liam relaxes again.

(Because he’s still not used to Liam hiding who he is but he gets it. He _swears_ he gets it.

And he doesn’t bother Liam about it because they’re not – well, not officially.

Not like dumb teenagers in silly romantic comedies about university students falling in –

Zayn’s arm goes slack at the thought and Liam doesn’t comment on it.)

“Usually we play a couple of games in some shit towns with dreadful universities,” Louis hums, drinking Harry’s tea, making faces at the bland flavor. “But sometimes, every few weeks, we play some posh London school and muck about the city for a few hours. Pubs and crazy shit. It’s mental. Absolutely mad, lads, I’m telling you.”

“It was pretty sick last year,” Zayn affirms, smirking.

They share a quick fist bump behind Liam’s back, Zayn’s arm dropping away afterwards instead of folding around Liam once more.

(Liam doesn’t flinch and it’s all Zayn needs. A silent definition. They’re a _nothing_ and Zayn doesn’t need any added distractions from studying. From finishing up school and fucking about across the globe for a few years.

Without Liam. He’s never really been a part of the equation, anyway.)

“Bloody sick, mates,” Louis beams, finishing his own tea.

“Sounds mad,” Harry smiles. He reaches out to fix a few stray pieces of Louis’ fringe, his fingers lingering over Louis’ temple and Zayn hasn’t yet asked any of them what’s happening.

Not when he spots Louis cuddling Harry behind the gym after a late practice or Niall always hanging around Harry’s room or even when the three of them are getting pizza together between studies.

It’s just – Zayn doesn’t want to know what it is, actually.

Niall nods along, tuning up something familiar, plucking the strings until he finds the chords with a lazy smile. He bites the tip of his tongue between his teeth, easing into the notes.

His voice is raspy like he’s huffed through Zayn’s whole pack earlier, dragging out _‘Roxanne you don’t have to wear that dress tonight’_ to a small audience of the girls’ footy team at the next table. They’re crowded together, giggling into their hands, cooing at him until he nearly loses a note over it all.

“Fucking manic bastard,” Louis laughs, leaning into him.

Zayn smiles into the sleeve of his hoodie, sniffing at the dark blue cotton –

It smells like Liam, all metallic cologne and citrusy wash and gross musk.

(The same scent Zayn finds himself biting his lip over, late into the night, lazily stroking his half-hard cock and easing a few dripping fingers over his hole. A light pressure, never sinking in. Just the thrill of teasing the nerves and working himself into a sweat. The tension captured in his forearm when he really thinks about it –

screwing Liam into the sheets or easing his thighs open so Liam can snuff the tip of his dick over Zayn’s hole

– while he moans into his shoulder.

The way the precome drips in fits over his fingers, shiny in the dark. That hot feeling in his chest like he can’t breathe. A glowing, red cherry of a feeling deep down in his veins and he keeps edging himself closer.

Stopping then starting. Dragging it out.

Toes curling into the sheets and Liam’s name a breath on his lips before he slicks his belly. Before he whimpers and draws blood from his bottom lip, barely aware he’s bitten it red and sore.)

He startles when Louis nudges him, stealing Zayn’s cup with a careless shrug. Zayn blinks away the fuzz (and awkwardly presses a hand down between his thighs to soothe the throb) before lifting his eyebrows at Louis.

(In the background, Liam is laughing and singing with Niall now, leaning over the table with crinkled eyes that almost distract Zayn.)

“Frat party the night before the game, bro. Annual fancy dress thing,” Louis mutters, puffing out a breath to shift the hair out of his eyes. “You in?”

Zayn swallows, sucking on his lower lip. He purposely doesn’t look towards Liam because –

(in grey flashes, he doesn’t remember cheap beer and snogging and – shit.)

“Dunno,” he says with a half-shrug and a soft sigh. “Studying and stuff.”

“C’mon Malik,” Louis whines. “S’not like you can’t just wing it. You’re brilliant enough.”

“Thanks, cheers,” Zayn laughs dryly, giving Louis a soft punch.

“Need a night out or summat,” Louis insists, shrugging in closer. “Go on a pull or whatever. Quit being so bent – “

“You’re bent,” Zayn scowls.

Louis waves him off with a short laugh. “I’m getting shagged, though. Got somewhere to get my tension out, y’know?”

“Nope,” Zayn hums, looking down at the cracks in the table, the grey stone underneath Liam’s hands.

So close to Zayn’s fingers and he could just inch over and –

“Alright,” he sighs, schooling anything thoughtful from his expression when he glares at Louis. “Just a few hours, bro.”

“Right, right,” Louis grins in that dramatically innocent way that’s never been quite convincing to Zayn. “Nothing huge. Few beers. Just chillin’ and shit.”

“Chillin’ and shit,” Zayn repeats, under his breath, dragging his hand further away from Liam’s on the table.

 

||

 

Zayn swears Louis has never been right about anything ever in his life.

The party is hardly worth the effort of him sliding into a clean shirt, shrugging on his favorite leather jacket and putting any exertion into slicking his hair into a shiny quiff.

It’s a wasteland of the usual uni students getting pissed off vodka shooters, buzzing off loosely wrapped spliffs by the bushes, all dressed up in cheesy superhero costumes and lacy knickers. The same catalogue of dance music and hip hop tunes rattling the walls with excessive bass. Freshers stumbling through the house without a clue. Rubbish frat lads crushing cans of beers, dizzy girls snogging in the halls.

And Louis, at the heart of the party with Harry tucked into his side, two chemical reactions colliding.

Zayn waves them off the second he staggers in, ducking off into a downstairs loo to huff through his first cigarette in hours. Perched on the sink, heavy boots knocking against the cupboards, picking at his fingernails and curling smoke from his mouth to the fuzzy sound of _‘I like us better when we’re wasted it makes it easier to fake it’_ through the door.

He sniffs, takes another drag, and thinks (more than once) of ditching off to finish casually watching _the Winter Solider_ and thumbing through his beat-up copy of _Civil War_ instead.

Zayn licks the dryness from his lips, another quick breath of smoke, stubbing the cigarette out in the dripping tap before hopping off the basin.

 _One more round for Louis_ , he thinks, skimming his fingers over his hair and checking his reflection.

“Pretty sick scene, man,” Niall says when the door swings open, leaning in the archway while shoving a shot glass at Zayn.

He’s nothing but slicked blonde hair, cheap Aviators, a loose button down with a Topman tie, silly socks tugged all the way up and cheesy boxers. An artificial Tom Cruise with his _Risky Business_ smile and incessantly rosy cheeks.

Zayn breathes out a short laugh, shaking his head. He takes the offered shot glass, droplets of cold gin spilling over onto his fingers.

“Cheers, mate,” Niall salutes.

Zayn nods and they down the shots in perfect synchronization, gasping from the pungent flavor, laughing.

“You look out of sorts, mate,” Niall mentions, shifting out of the way.

Zayn hums, biting over his lip, leaning against the wall with Niall.

“Not really my thing.”

“Yeah, fair play,” Niall snorts, haphazardly rolling up the sleeves of his shirt to his elbows. “I c’n see that. Be better if ye had some proper mates ‘round though.”

“Lou and Haz are here,” Zayn replies, dragging his eyes over the crowded kitchen and the oversaturated lounge area.

He needs an out and another cigarette.

“Yeah, them too,” Niall says with a soft chuckle and there’s something under his voice, an insinuation, that Zayn can’t quite make out.

Niall pats his shoulder gently, scrunching his nose with a huge smile before he’s disappearing into a line of giggling girls shuffling drunkenly towards the kitchen.

Zayn shrugs off the burn of Niall’s touch and the ache from the alcohol (and the _‘yeah, them too’_ that keeps echoing in the back of his mind) to knock through the crowd towards the back door.

Nothing about the night feels like Louis promised. He just needs another drink, maybe someone new to chat with, someone to bleed out this feeling coiling low on his spine.

Or just another cigarette until his thoughts start to run together and go dim.

 

||

 

He’s halfway through his third cigarette ( _he’s quitting_ – one of these days), leaning over the railing on the balcony with the cold night leaving his ears pink, and the hours sinking like ships lost at sea. He can feel the smoke in his lungs and the chill biting at his fingers when someone stumbles up to lean over the rail with him.

Not a someone – a _Liam_ , actually, with soft cheeks shoving at his eyes and an infectious smile.

He’s wrapped in a full-on Batman costume, minus the cape and cowl, with a wide grin made pinker by the leftover rock candies around his mouth from the sugar-sour drinks they’re passing around inside. Honestly, he looks a bit ridiculous and so _happy_ that Zayn can’t bite back the smile that twitches over his own lips.

Liam nudges him playfully, exhaling a laugh while Zayn takes another drag.

Zayn leans back a little to take him in, eyeing the way all of the black he’s wearing blends into the shadows of the night but Liam’s face stands out like the moon. This unpredictable glow that follows Liam everywhere, even when he looks buzzed.

“You look terribly drunk,” Zayn comments, breathing out the bluish smoke.

Liam quickly shakes his head, hiccupping a giggle. “Not quite,” he replies, putting all of his weight on his forearms over the railing. “It’s funny ‘cause all of the lads I’ve run into are drinking these sweet pink drinks and all of the girls from me music study courses are sharing bottles of Jack Daniels. Straight from the bottle, mate.”

Zayn coughs out a quick, sharp laugh, hiding it in the sleeve of his jacket.

“How many ‘ave you had, Leeyum?”

“Two,” Liam grins, leaning back to hold up four fingers instead. He giggles, his face scrunching and his cheeks glowing pink. “I think I’m terrible at math.”

“Horrible,” Zayn smiles, using his spare hand to squeeze Liam’s hip and steady him.

He frowns because he can’t feel all of the warmth through the thick materials of Liam’s costume but, underneath, he appreciates the effect it creates.

Liam leans into Zayn’s palm and Zayn feels the coil in his stomach start to unwind, slowly, all of the circulation pulsing from that little contact.

“I can’t believe you dressed for the party,” Zayn says, wrinkling his nose to stop his smile. He takes another long breath of smoke to settle the outrageous beat behind his chest.

Liam gives a small shrug. “I’m a bit nerdy, like. I’m a donut,” he says, his voice low and anxious. He bites gently over his lips. “Why didn’t you dress?”

Zayn breathes in a deep breath of chilled night air, blinking at the skyline for a moment. A quiet moment where he feels like he’s outgrowing his armor. A soft _‘fuck it’_ in his mind before he’s flicking the rest of his cigarette into the lawn, watching Liam from the corner of his eye.

His lips twitch a little cockily into a smirk before he draws back, one hand still on Liam’s waist. His spare hand tugs open his jacket and his chest expands a little to show off the Wolverine t-shirt tucked underneath.

“Happy?” he challenges, his smile shifting crookedly over his mouth.

Liam sputters a laugh, nodding. He lifts a hand to drag over the design and Zayn wants something similar without all of the clothes and the pretentious dialogue.

(The stutter of Liam’s moan and his own breath going a little rough at the affection behind Liam’s hands, perhaps.)

“Nerdy,” Liam says mockingly. “And quite the Marvel bloke too?”

Zayn shrugs his jacket closed again, lifting his eyebrows appreciatively when Liam tucks back into his side, their hips slotting together.

Liam fixes his eyes on the sky, cheeks still lifted, the clips of glow around his features from the silly leftover fairy Christmas lights already hung making everything soft. And Zayn can’t help himself – his heavy armor falling away.

His fingers brush the sticky candy from Liam’s mouth before he asks, softer, “Why here? Why Cambridge?”

Liam’s lips, pink and sugary, flinch into a solemn smile. He blinks down at the wreckage of the party on the lawn, thinking. That soft line between his fuzzy eyebrows dominant now.

“I could’ve gone somewhere in London. Loads of scouts came to me school and I felt,” Liam pauses and Zayn’s fingers draw under his fat bottom lip. “I was overwhelmed by it all, y’know? Completely. I just wanted to stay at home.”

There’s a speck of leftover twilight in the sky that melts purple into the black. Liam finds it with his eyes, involuntarily nudging into Zayn’s fingers until they start to move again. Drawing crazy shapes over Liam’s fuzzy cheek.

“But my mum said I’d be better off somewhere with a good program instead of wasting away at a community college,” he mumbles. “A good university. Somewhere she could visit and where me sisters would be proud to say their daft little brother goes.”

“Like Cambridge,” Zayn whispers, breathing a smile out.

Liam nods gently. “It’s tough some days,” he continues, exhaling like he’s holding in every breath. This overwhelming flutter to his eyelashes. “I struggle with some of my studies. I feel like a right failure but then me pops, bless him – “

Zayn watches the anchor fall. He watches the smooth smile saturate Liam’s lips.

It’s an unmistakable calm and Zayn wants to drown in the way it affects Liam so easily.

“He’ll text me and trust me, he is horrible at texting,” Liam laughs and, somewhere between breaths, he rests a strong hand on the small of Zayn’s back. He presses and Zayn follows the momentum until their axis meet.

There’s a sweet hesitance in Liam’s eyes – like there might be people watching and someone might see him – but he keeps his hand there. He shudders out his next breath and stares in Zayn’s eyes until he’s calm.

“He texts me and tells me how happy he is that I’m gonna be better than him,” Liam says with a swallow. “And all my stupid life I thought – there’s no fucking way anyone is better than my dad, y’know.”

Zayn brushes his tongue over his lips and grins. He knows.

Liam shivers out a husky laugh, leaning in until their foreheads knock gently. “Wow,” he whispers and Zayn thinks in déjà vu and all of those things he’s read about happenstance.

Serendipity, he thinks.

“This reminds me of another night,” Liam breathes with fingers creating little circles low on Zayn’s back.

Zayn hums teasingly. “S’that so?”

“I met this terribly cool bloke,” Liam continues, his voice low, scratchy. “If I’m being honest, I was bricking it too. He’s awfully fit and quite clever. Don’t know why he even bothered with me.”

“Shut up,” Zayn smiles.

Liam keeps their foreheads pressed closed, their warm breaths mingling, synchronized tongues licking at their lips.

“What? You expect me to kiss you like I did that night?” Zayn asks with a crooked smile bearing his teeth.

“No,” Liam laughs, nervous fingers digging into Zayn’s spine. “Not if you won’t enjoy it.”

Zayn rolls his eyes, his hand easing to the nape of Liam’s neck.

“I’ve got other things to focus on.”

“Oh. Right,” Liam stammers and the flinch in his expression gives it all away.

It tightens the chain around Zayn’s insides and he exhales an easy laugh before nudging down and in. He holds Liam steady with both hands, tilts his head, drags his lips over Liam’s to snog him in this carefree way that makes Liam moan.

Liam’s fingers ride along the edge of Zayn’s jeans, cautious brushes over the line of Zayn’s arse. Zayn bites encouragingly at his lower lip until Liam goes for it. He exhales shakily and kisses Zayn back, sugar candy and a stain of alcohol still on his tongue.

In front of a dozen partying students who don’t even give them a look.

(But it feels like they’re all staring – they’re all watching Liam bloom. They’re noting the pink in his cheeks and studying the nervous shake in his hands and watching him kiss another boy.

And his heart expands so loud in Zayn’s chest that he can’t hear Liam’s mumbled keens in his head.)

His own hands rub the tension out of Liam’s shoulders and in the back of his neck, crafting a calm through his tendons. He licks Liam’s lips open and drags the tip of his tongue across the roof of Liam’s mouth. He holds him because he knows ( _he_ fucking _knows_ ) this boy might startle if he realizes how deep they’re in this –

(and maybe he holds on for an anchor too because this isn’t supposed to happen)

“Hey,” Zayn whispers when he drags his lips from Liam’s swollen mouth.

“Hi,” Liam breathes back, eyes closed, looking abashed.

“Okay?”

Liam tries to give a nod but their heads are still so close. Instead, he squeezes Zayn’s hips and exhales. A deep, whistling noise from his chest out.

“Um, so maybe you won’t stop me this time? If I said I’d want to keep this going?” Liam asks, flitting his eyes open, gnawing at his lower lip.

Zayn lifts his eyebrows out of Liam’s view, eyeing those cheeks coloring a deep crimson. He scratches his fingers down the nape of Liam’s neck, considering.

“C’mon,” Zayn whispers, smirking when Liam’s eyes shine. “Let’s get a bit inappropriate, babe.”

 

||

 

It’s ridiculous – watching Liam try to tug off his Batman costume in the middle of a dark room backlit by the canary moon. The way he kicks out of his boots and struggles with the chest piece.

And it’s also horribly arousing, Zayn thinks, the way this boy is desperate. He’s _aching_ to tear away all of the black and shed the rubber just to get arse-naked for Zayn. In the hollow of the night, in the center of Zayn’s room, with Zayn slouched lazily on his bed. With languid fingers circling the tip of his cock, eyeing the way Liam sweats and blushes and stumbles all the way up to the bed just for a touch.

For a kiss, long and slow and noisy.

The way Liam’s skin is buzzing and warm under Zayn’s hands. The flush glowing in the dark, all of his moles like splatters of dark paint over his tan skin. Soft hair on the inside of his thighs and willing muscle twisting under the weight of Zayn’s hands. A candy mouth and earthy eyes and Liam fumbling into whatever position Zayn guides him into.

“Can’t sit still, can you?” Zayn snickers when Liam stretches his neck up for a kiss.

Zayn obliges, nudging Liam to the headboard, easing down his unreasonably tight matching Batman pants until they’re tangled around his ankles.

Liam moans his disappointment when Zayn drags his mouth away, scrambling hands scratching down Zayn’s spine. A hiccupping moan stumbles past his lips when Zayn bites gently over his throat, over the birthmark, sucking for an imprint of his lips.

For a fucking _permanent mark_ – even if his lips can’t create one.

“Zayn,” Liam gasps, tilting his hips up, his bare cock skimming against Zayn’s.

Zayn hums a response, lips still attached at the collarbone, into the hollow.

“So fucking hard,” Liam mewls, rocking his hips, a silent emphasis.

Zayn smiles over Liam’s sternum. He feels the curve of Liam’s cock against his abdomen, the wet tip sticking to Zayn’s skin, the throbbing base beating out Liam’s pulse.

“Be good for me, babe,” Zayn whispers into Liam’s skin, savoring the way Liam goes shock-still at the drag in Zayn’s voice. “That’s it. Be such a good lad for me.”

Teeth over a nipple, a soft bite, the ache of Liam’s moan right against his ear.

“So, so good for me,” Zayn breathes while his hands anchor Liam’s hips to the mattress. “Such a good lad for me, alright? You can do it.”

Liam whimpers a noise that’s half Zayn’s name, partially a gasp, and it echoes in the room. It drives Zayn mad, his swollen mouth finding new drafts of skin to kiss – the space between Liam’s ribs, the inside of his bicep, the smooth plane of his belly, the inch of skin that’s slick with Liam’s precome.

“Good for me?” Zayn wonders, tilting his head, dragging his stubble over Liam’s stomach until it looks sore and pink.

Liam flutters his eyes shut, head tipped up, a gasp ghosting through his throat.

Nervous hands find Zayn’s shoulders, urge him lower but Zayn fights back against them. He grins into the dip of Liam’s stomach when he sucks in a deep breath. His tongue carves loose circles around Liam’s navel and he can feel the edge of Liam’s dick brushing his chin.

So close and inches from a taste. A bitter flavor like his precome. A saltines Zayn wants at the back of his throat for days. He wonders how his tongue will fit under the foreskin and how thick Liam leaks when he’s being swallowed.

When someone is humming around his shaft and twisting soft lips around the head –

“Zayn,” Liam moans, eyes squeezed shut, fingers pinching at the nape of Zayn’s neck.

“Can I watch for a moment?” Zayn asks, sliding from under Liam’s sweaty hands.

He sits back on his heels, his own cock smacking up against his belly, dark and pulsing. His hands squeeze at Liam’s thighs until he flutters his eyes open and Zayn grins arrogantly, dragging Liam’s legs apart for a better view.

Just to run his eyes over the thick curls around Liam’s dick and the softness on the inside of his thighs. The muscles in his calves, the flex of his stomach when he breathes. Each bare strip of this boy under a hazy moon and sharp shadows.

“Watch?” Liam repeats, swallowing.

Zayn nods gently, stroking his hands up, watching the strained reaction Liam gives when his fingers tickle the soft flesh on the inside.

“Bet you look amazing while you pull y’self off, babe,” Zayn teases, his tongue caught between his teeth. “Quite the sight, yeah?”

Liam shivers and an absent hand trembles down his stomach, hovering over his cock.

Zayn grins, leaning back to give Liam a proper view of his dick, the stiff line of it and how fucking turned on he is watching this boy.

Sharp teeth bite ruthlessly at Liam’s lip, his thumb finally rubbing over the foreskin. The pad glistening when he smears his thumb down the underside, shaking. He’s absolutely trembling but still going until his fingers can cup is balls. A soft squeeze, an achy moan and Zayn’s not certain _who_ it comes from.

They’re both a little breathless and exposed in this moment.

“That’s it. So good,” Zayn moans, brushing hair out of his eyes to watch. “What do you like?”

Liam’s hand, on instinct and need, slides back up until his fingers are loosely squeezing the head. Peeling back the foreskin, pulling it back around the tip. Shiny drops of precome dripping down the shaft.

His chest, smooth and still developing, rises and falls so quickly. Heavy breaths with dilated eyes fixated on Zayn’s cock. His thighs strain out shapely muscles and Liam circles his thumb around the head until Zayn can see how pink it is. The pale outline around his midsection where his skin is milky instead of tan.

Zayn wants to touch. Instead, he drags his sweaty palms down his stomach, across his own thighs, straining not to grab his own dick and wank off all over this boy.

This fucking _artwork_ with a slow hand and curling toes bracketing Zayn’s knees.

“Good lad,” Zayn whispers, crawling up the bed, between Liam’s thighs. “S’okay, babe. You can show off.”

Liam preens under the attention, slouching further down. His ankles hook around Zayn’s hips and his spine arches beautifully when Zayn finally flattens a palm to Liam’s stomach. Neat eyelashes beating over his cheeks as Liam shuts his eyes, his swollen pink mouth parted for all of these breathy whimpers.

To echo off Zayn’s name like he’s imagining Zayn fucking him. On these sheets, under the hollow moon.

“C’mon,” Zayn moans, pressing Liam further into the mattress, leaning over him. His dick brushes over that soft line behind Liam’s balls and Liam grits his teeth for a hiss.

“Want it?” Zayn asks.

Liam nods quickly with shaking thighs. His hand squeezes firmly around his shaft until the head goes crimson but he keeps teasing himself. Fingers coming back wetter, glossy when he peels away the foreskin.

“You want my dick?” Zayn inquires, deepening his voice. Hovering the words over Liam’s face as he sneaks a hand behind the mountain of pillows for his _emergency lube_ –

(Honestly, it’s really just the lube he uses to slick himself up now while he wanks off. Thinking about Liam. About his candy mouth and agile body and perfectly broad hands.

And every single time feels like an emergency.)

Liam shudders a breath this time and his balls twitch. Like he’s close. He’s such an _almost there_ that Zayn has to lean in, smothering kisses to Liam’s lips until his breathing slows.

Calm, calm, calm.

Until Liam goes slack and his hand pauses on his cock to snog back.

It’s awkward and completely uncoordinated but Zayn manages to palm his way to the half-empty bottle of lube while steadying all of his weight on one arm next to Liam’s head. Unconsciously, he ruts his dick across Liam’s hole

(and he’s so unaware of when Liam lifted his legs, his hips to give Zayn enough room or how he’s so fucking flexible – _thank you Niall Horan and your stupid after-practice-yoga-sessions_ – enough to touch himself while exposing his pink hole)

before jerking his hips back. His dick is too sensitive and Liam’s so ready for it.

There’s this rim of trust around his dark eyes and a patient hand rubbing encouraging circles into Zayn’s forearm. It’s out of form and not what Zayn intended.

(even if there’s a box of condoms under the bed and he’s certain he has enough strength to fuck Liam breathless and –

 _no_.)

“Ever been fingered, babe?” Zayn inquires, brushing the crooked line of his smile over Liam’s lips.

Liam swallows, chokes off a noise that’s more of a breath than a reply. Zayn welcomes the sound.

“Just gonna finger you off a bit, alright? Might get you loose,” Zayn says, huskily. “Feels nice, really. Y’can think about what it’ll be like if we, well.”

The pause makes Liam whine and Zayn can feel it vibrating off his skin – the _‘fuck me’_ he’s still too shy and new to say.

“Just relax and play with your cock, babe,” Zayn insists, leaning back (and he’s so thankful for those extra strength training sessions Louis’ put him through because the ache in his muscles doesn’t last long) while spreading Liam’s legs.

Liam stays frozen, breathing recklessly, sweat shiny over his skin.

“Hey,” Zayn whispers, smirking. He taps Liam’s hip until he cautiously lifts up for Zayn to shove a pillow beneath his arse. “Trust me?”

Liam doesn’t even hesitate this time – nodding, still chewing his bottom lip.

“Good,” Zayn sighs, this instant relief soaking into his bones. “Still being a good lad f’r me?”

Another nod, a hint of something pleased in Liam’s eyes. An inch of ecstasy around his pupils before Zayn pops the lid on the lube, drizzling excessive amounts over his fingers.

He stains the sheet with wet spots and watches it slide down Liam’s thighs before grinning.

Liam twitches his nose, carefully easing his hand back between his thighs, over his desperately hard cock. Slow strokes, even and measured, keeping the foreskin pulled around the tip.

He’s so mesmerized by it all, watching Liam and the flick of moonlight and the stuttered motions of his hand that he forgets – dripping fingers and legs leveraged apart to show off a pink hole, the dusting of curling hairs down a smooth crack and –

Zayn smiles, his heart an out of control hummingbird, as he leans down and fixes his mouth over Liam’s. He edges soft kisses to bruised lips while easing his middle finger in. Careful, careful – slow and tender while Liam gasps into his mouth.

“Such a good lad,” Zayn whispers to Liam’s parted lips and the flood of calm settles into Liam’s rigid bones.

He goes slack across the bed, except for his stroking hand, and Zayn takes advantage of the distraction to screw his finger in deep.

There’s something addictive about the tightness, the coil of Liam’s muscles around Zayn’s fingers, the heat that keeps Zayn buried deep. He shifts his finger, feels Liam squeeze around him before twisting and thrusting into him.

Liam bucks abruptly, moaning, his free hand squeezing at Zayn’s shoulder like it’s too much.

“Relax, babe,” Zayn grins and Liam is so obedient.

 _Such a fucking good boy_ , Zayn thinks, sliding a second finger in when he thinks Liam can handle it.

And he’s so wrong because Liam whines and grinds down onto his fingers. He fucks himself onto Zayn’s long fingers, abandoning his leaking cock, sweat crawling all over his skin.

“Christ, oh God,” Liam moans, eyelashes beating restlessly over his cheeks. “So _deep_. You’re so deep. Oh fuck, Zee.”

Zayn buries his smirk into the crook of Liam’s neck, nodding. He sniffs at the sweat and licks away the salt while burrowing further in. His fingers brush over sensitive nerves, a bundle of muscles, something that shocks electricity into Liam’s spine.

A perfectly strung bow pulled tight and Zayn mouths out a _‘keep going, be so good for me, you can do it you can take it’_ until Liam stops clawing at the sheets from the pleasure.

“You’re not touching yourself,” Zayn reminds him, pulling back, drawing his fingers out to tease the rim.

Liam gasps for a breath, staring up at Zayn with these vulnerable, dark eyes. These large marbles that are glassed over, teeth gnawing away the flesh of his lower lip.

“Touch it.”

A shaking hand bolts between Liam’s thighs, over his cock, rubbing lazy circles until his palm has a sticky string connected to the tip of his dick. He’s writhing along the sheets, trying to work himself further onto Zayn’s fingers and it’s impossibly beautiful.

(Zayn thinks of his own first time – the first time someone slid long fingers into him, the burn, and the need. That helpless feeling under your skin like you want to escape it but wanting it to keep going.

Looking for dry land in the middle of the ocean.)

“Please,” Liam whimpers, turning his head to hide half of his blush.

Zayn nods, stroking his thumb across Liam’s balls and he remembers what he wanted –

That little scratch of an itch in his belly for something to concentrate on.

He ducks down, bowed over, still fingering Liam deep as he mouths along Liam’s shaft. Lips sticky with sugary-tart precome. The edge of his tongue lapping at the head while Liam forgoes composure.

Loud, echoing, saturated moans from deep in his chest ring in Zayn’s ear. This constant pulse like good dance music and Zayn finds a rhythm with his lips around the head of Liam’s cock.

He fingers in deep until Liam thrusts up and swallows around the fat tip of Liam’s dick, finding a pattern that soothes and taunts Liam at the same time.

Liam’s gasping, carding shaking fingers through Zayn’s thick hair. “Am I being good?”

Zayn stretches his lips to smile around Liam’s cock before drawing off. He licks away the precome, nudging a third finger in when Liam’s too distracted by the sight.

“So good, babe,” Zayn sighs, staring at the uncontrollable flush to Liam’s chest at the fucked out sound of Zayn’s voice. “Think you can come in my mouth?”

Liam makes a soft noise, helpless fingers tugging at Zayn’s head and trying to position him like he wants to shout _‘yes, yes, yes’_ but all of his throat muscles are being stubborn.

Zayn goes a little too willingly (something he knows he’ll regret because he’s usually in control – he’s far from some pliant, nervous piece of arse for some overzealous lad to command but for Liam – _shit_ ) but shakes off his thoughts to slurp up the thick base of Liam’s cock before tonguing the foreskin back and swallowing the head again.

He loves the way Liam’s thighs shake around his head, the slow bob he creates when Liam’s too defenseless to guide him.

Liam’s hole keeps tensing around his fingers, going tighter – an obvious sign that turns Zayn on more. He thrusts hard, twisting, looking for that spot.

It’s so easy on this boy – still so new and untouched. Breathless at just a kiss from Zayn yet –

It’s not what Zayn wants. His heart, the fucking useless muscle, aches to watch Liam smile up at him in that dopey way he does when Zayn does something half-right. When they’re standing next to each other or when he catches Zayn staring at him during practice.

There’s this small want to see Liam grow into his confidence and hold Zayn’s hand in public. Or to be sat in Zayn’s lap in the daylight, sharing comic books and laughing at Niall’s stupid singing.

It’s so loud in his head that he almost misses Liam’s soft mewling, his whispered, “Oh Zayn, please, wait – not yet, not yet. Keep going but I’m gonna come and – shit. Just a little bit more.”

His jaw aches and his wrists throbs from all of the exertion but Zayn presses up, curling his fingers, swallowing around Liam’s cock until he feels Liam tighten around him. He feels Liam exhale roughly, dragging sharp fingers over Zayn’s scalp just before he quivers and comes thickly over Zayn’s tongue.

The taste is different – _new_ , he thinks. New and quietly wonderful. Zayn swallows around the tip, tonguing over the last spurts, grinding his fingers over Liam’s prostate.

“Oh fuck, you’ve got to be taking the piss,” Liam groans, cupping the nape of Zayn’s neck to keep him there.

Zayn grins, lapping away the beads from the slit, yanking out of Liam’s touch. He drags the back of his hand over his mouth, watching Liam slide lethargically down the sheets with half-lidded eyes. He remembers that look – oversensitive and raw, too zoned out to find gravity. Zayn smears his filthy fingers over the sheets and ducks in close until their foreheads touch.

“Hey, hey,” he whispers, mouthing soft kisses to Liam’s slack jaw. “Still there?”

Liam hums a response, twitching out a dazed smile.

“You were so good,” Zayn says, feeling tragically out of place but so happy when Liam moans tenderly.

(It’s just that – he’s never been _this guy_. The caring one. The unexpected prince charming from somebody else’s fairy tale and he’s not meant for any of this.

He’s just here for a scholarship and a silly sport and to get away from Bradford.)

“You?” Liam mumbles and it takes Zayn a moment to realize Liam’s waving blindly at Zayn’s own hard dick.

He chuckles, shaking his head, brushing another kiss to Liam’s lips.

“Good, man. I’m so good. Don’t worry about it. It’ll go down.”

“No, no,” Liam says urgently, struggling to find his strength and shove at Zayn’s shoulders. “I wanna.”

Zayn laughs, this full feeling deep in his bones and radiating this glow into his blood. He stumbles backwards on the bed, squirming on the sheets while Liam crawls up him and –

Those large eyes and candy mouth and strong hands all over Zayn’s hips disarm him.

He feels that tightness in his stomach but it’s without the pain or frustration. It feels sort of brilliant.

“C’mon, just,” Liam sighs, already curling loose fingers around Zayn’s half-hard cock. “I’ve never sucked off a bloke before.”

Zayn cackles and almost bats Liam’s hand away from the humor. He sounds like an awful porn and it does nothing to arouse Zayn but –

“You’re a monster,” he exhales, reaching up to drag his palm over Liam’s buzzed hair before cupping the back of his skull and spreading his legs for Liam. “Alright, I’ll teach you this time.”

Liam’s lips twitch up crookedly and Zayn ignores his protesting heart and stupid thoughts to guide Liam’s mouth to his cock, sighing happily when Liam goes so eagerly.

 

||

 

Zayn can still feel the adrenaline manipulating his cells – that pulse in his blood, slowly coating each of his bones.

Another win. Another hard fought war where this little band of runts stood over fucking giants. _His team_.

He loves London. This huge city with its neon capillaries and the lights like throbbing veins stretching and wrapping around the grid. A bluish purple sky, like a fresh bruise, that he keeps thinking of sketching on the back of some half-finished Lit essay. Rough pencil marks with the noises of Big Ben in the background. This post-victory high still making his heart beat fast and strong behind his ribs.

Instead, he watches the ceiling from some less than posh hotel bed, tossing a game ball above his head. A catch and release drill Liam taught him a few weeks back and his mouth keeps inching into this dopey little grin because –

Well, _Liam_.

They’re still a nothing and Zayn’s still nearly certain that it’s on purpose. Stolen kisses and lingering looks like bashful schoolchildren keeping a secret. Building forts of textbooks and empty coffee cups in Zayn’s room after practices. Maddeningly slow handjobs after a good game, breathing sweet exhales into each other’s mouths and their hearts loud like freight trains.

But there’s never enough _words_ – something that keeps Zayn rooted to the floor most days.

His tiny, guileless anchor to remind him why he’s even bothering with this team – a scholarship. A way out.

Harry is humming gleefully from the queen mattress opposite him, stretched into an awkward position (thank you very much _Niall_ fucking _Horan_ ) with his eyes closed, cherry-pink lips twisted into a peaceful smirk. He’s soft dimples and manic curls and Zayn keeps watching him from the corner of his eye, tossing the ball from his fingers and waiting for it to drop.

“You’re thinking too loud,” Harry says, nonchalantly with his eyes still shut.

Zayn smirks, eyeing the ball as it floats back down to his fingers like a heavy feather.

“You’re breathing too loud.”

“I’m channeling my stress,” Harry explains in this deep, slow voice. “It keeps me balanced. Plus it helps with my breathing during a game. You should – “

“Shouldn’t,” Zayn corrects, still grinning. His fingers launch the ball back up and he keeps his hands even (like Liam taught him) to catch it again.

Harry’s lips twitch into a sincere smile and he exhales a little louder this time.

“If I can hammer down my jump serve, I think I’ll be well mint out there,” Harry mentions, twisting awkwardly into another position that Zayn’s certain is a bit more sexual than helpful.

Zayn smiles. “Still trying to impress the captain?”

There’s a muffled noise and a deep sigh from the other side of the room that Zayn doesn’t bother looking towards. He’s seen the pink cheeks and swelling grin Harry always wears when mentioning Louis or Niall.

(They’re still without a definition and Zayn’s stop bothering to ask, even if he thinks it’s quite weird just to observe.)

“He’s a brilliant libero out there. Saved our arses a handful of time’s tonight,” Harry replies.

Zayn nods, biting at his lip, watching the ball descend towards his fingers.

“Hey,” Harry says, finally flopping back on his bed with a grin, half-twisted towards Zayn now. “A bit curious – “

“That doesn’t sound safe, mate,” Zayn chews out, lifting an eyebrow when Harry sputters.

“Rude, Zayn. Very rude,” Harry says with a mock frown that slowly slips into something playful. “Are you fancying anyone lately?”

Zayn freezes, fingers caught around the ball, something squeezing around all of the muscles in his arms.

“It’s just that,” Harry continues, sniffing. “It seems like you’re a different lad, you know? Not bad or anything. And I’ve noticed you and – “

There’s a knock at their door. A _Louis knock_ (perfect anarchy and loud) that makes Zayn finally drop the ball, huffing a quiet breath – a relief. He rolls off the bed, not bothering to look Harry in the eyes, dragging his feet over the carpet all the way to the door.

He has a shaking hand twisted around the knob when Harry adds, “Hey. Whoever he is, I hope he knows how happy he makes you, mate.”

(Something tight coils around Zayn’s shoulders so they won’t drop, his spine arrow straight and he nods gently for Harry.

He shoves away all of the _‘run, run, run’_ in his head at the thought of Liam and _‘are you fancying anyone lately’_ echoes loud like thunder in his ears.)

“C’mon, you dumb twat. I can hear you _breathing_ on the other side of this damn – “

Zayn bites down on his half-grin at the sound of Louis’ rioting, dramatic voice, scratching at his belly through his cottony university shirt before swinging open the door. Louis is leaning in the doorway, dressed smartly in a button-up and skinnies and Vans, Niall and Liam tucked behind him with these nervous smiles like –

“You look like shit,” Louis sneers, smirking with his hair slicked back, over-gelled with product and his eyes like stars over the seas.

Zayn scoffs at him. “And you look like my former best mate.”

“Ouch, Malik,” Louis groans, attempting to sound wounded, tossing a rough punch at Zayn’s shoulder. “Don’t be rude.”

“Don’t be Louis,” Zayn smiles, easing back with a sharp jerk of his head towards the beds, a silent invitation that Louis barely waits for.

“Quit getting your knickers in a bunch, Malik,” Louis smirks as he nudges in, reflexive fingers tapping at Zayn’s hip like an almost apology Zayn accepts so willingly from him.

Niall follows with crimson cheeks and this rolling cackle, Liam a few steps behind. He keeps his head ducked, a habitual hand palming the nape of his neck but there’s this smile on his lips like he’s teetering near the edge of finally letting the world see a small view of his confidence – a victory Zayn thinks, even while Liam’s shuffling his feet over the threshold, keeping close to Niall like he’s hiding.

“Now put on a proper kit, Zayner. We’re going out to celebrate,” Louis elaborates from Zayn’s bed, squashed near the headboard and cocooned by all of the pillows like he’s a king laid on his throne.

Zayn shoots his eyebrows up, lips twisting skeptically.

(It’s not that he didn’t see it coming – it always does.

They could’ve piled into their bus and braved the trip back to Cambridge but the coaches always insist on stuffing the team onto one hotel floor for the night after an away game. Some holiday away from campus when they all know it’s an excuse for the coaches to stay out drinking at whatever dodgy pub is closest to the heart of the city.

And Louis always, always uses it as an excuse to ditch out late at night and explore the neon bright veins crawling around whatever city they’re holed up in.)

“We’ll get caught,” Zayn says, like always, lips already lifting into a curious grin.

“Piss off,” Louis laughs, budging over a little for Niall to crawl in next to him.

Liam stays to the wall, chewing his lip, watching it all play out with wide eyes.

“We never get caught,” Louis adds, huffing out the words and narrowing his eyes at Zayn. “Need a drink, mate. Plus we should celebrate our first win in London. Muck about for a few.”

“Sounds lovely,” Harry grins, chin on his knuckles, curls falling back into his eyes.

“It’s really not,” Zayn pouts. “We always end up out too late. Too knackered in the morning to do anything.”

“And you always get drunk and have a brilliant time,” Louis reminds him and, well, Zayn doesn’t argue against that.

But there’s principles. He is supposed to look like a proper good example for the freshers or something. He doesn’t quite know (or care) right now.

“C’mon, Stan and Danny are already out. Club spotting,” Louis whines, freeing a pillow under Niall’s bum to toss at Zayn. “We’ve not had a proper night out all season. And we need to celebrate our shining new star Payno. Another double-double for him tonight!”

Liam blushes an awful vermillion against the wall, laughing quietly with shaking shoulders. He blinks up at Zayn, strains of deep brown behind his lashes and Zayn instantly looks away.

(He’d toss them all out and shove Liam into the mattress, spread him wide to flick his tongue messily over Liam’s hole and wait for Liam to get cocky – wait for Liam to bloom into that desperate boy from too many nights ago.)

“What about me?” Niall frowns.

“Oh, and I s’ppose we can have a toast to Horan or summat. You were at the game, right? Couldn’t tell,” Louis drawls out, a put upon dullness to his tone just for the reaction Niall gives.

“Prick,” Niall hisses, reaching up to tangle his fingers into Louis’ neatly styled hair.

Louis instinctively swats his hand away, sucking in a sharp breath. “Spent an hour and all of your hair product on this, you tit,” he crows, jerking away when Niall goes for a second attempt. “Quit fucking about.”

Niall grins, cuddling into a pillow and the side of Louis’ chest and Zayn wonders for a half-second if maybe, later, Louis will let Niall drag his hand through that hair when he’s too pissed on beers to care.

He kicks away the thought when Louis smiles pleadingly up at him from the bed, knocking his ankles with Niall’s. Zayn crosses his arms, widening his shoulders to intimidate Louis but Louis lets out a scoffing laugh, rolling his eyes.

“Zayner,” he sings and Zayn fucking hates him. He’s too distracted by the way Liam keeps _staring_ at him and Harry is absolutely preening from his bed, already scrambling for clothes and something to tie his curls up with.

And Zayn deflates, right there in the middle of the carpet, shaking his head.

“This is going to be horrible.”

“Yeah,” Louis breathes, dragging his smile over Niall’s temple, impatient fingers looping into the waist of Liam’s jeans to tug him down on the bed. “I’m a brilliant fucking captain.”

 

||

 

It takes Harry nearly an hour to find something to wear (Zayn even longer) before they’re shuffling out into the halls in a crooked line, skipping the lifts in favor of the stairs, stealing out an emergency exit into the cool, balmy night like a band of idiot robbers.

An uncomfortable taxi ride (with Liam half in his lap and he absolutely _refuses_ to complain about that or the way he can sneak a hand over Liam’s arse just for the spotty pink blush that spills over Liam’s cheeks) later, they’re huddling together on Cowper Street, queued up in the line outside of XOYO with their hands shoved in their jeans. Zayn can feel the pulse of the bass from the bricks and the air tastes of smoke and cheap alcohol – the sort of place he’s always avoided but the kind he knows Louis loves.

“ _Wow_ ,” Niall exhales, blinking at all of the manic club goers, the city a glowing strobe light from here.

It’s like everything is waking up around them – the bars and the late night food venues with their greasy dishes. The winking lights drawing attention. The hum of Big Ben too far away to view, the misty fog high over their heads but the chill already wrapping around their bones. The steam from coffee cups and the usual buzz of an anxious city seconds from coming alive.

Zayn breathes it in like the first real puff off a joint – he holds it in his lungs. He waits until his eyes water and he’s seconds from coughing it all out – that daydream nirvana he loves best.

“Fucking right,” Louis grins, nudging Zayn.

Zayn rolls his eyes, patting out a few cigarettes – two for him, one for Louis because he knows, after a few drinks, Louis will break all of his own rules to keep this feeling throbbing in his lungs – before dragging his eyes over Liam.

Pink nose, soothing smile, large brown eyes like he’s never expected any of this.

(And Zayn doesn’t know if that’s a reference to himself or the city or _everything_ )

A half-wrinkled white shirt, one of Niall’s snapbacks stolen and sitting awkwardly on his head. Shredded acid wash jeans and scuffed trainers and this boyish glow that Zayn is addicted to. Like clean white sheets that need a stain or strong fingers to muck up all of the creases.

Louis pays off a doorman and drags all of them inside with a proud grin, his chin cocked up like some arrogant sea captain. An artificial Jack Sparrow with his charm and sea salt blue eyes.

Stan is waiting for them at the door, an armful of drinks and this massive smile stained over his lips. Danny is somewhere in the shadows, too far out of sight, chatting up a few girls and Zayn spots Andy dancing manically at the heart of one of the floors.

“If you get lost, use a rubber,” Louis warns, already downing a salty tequila shot, smirking over his shoulder. “If you meet someone, use a rubber. If you get too pissed to walk, use a rubber.”

“What if we need to use the loo?” Harry asks, shouting over the throb of _‘we’re beautiful like diamonds in the sky’_ in the background.

“ _Wear a rubber_ ,” Louis and Zayn say in unison, laughing.

“Be careful and have at it boys,” Stan yells over the music, most of his smile splattered in neon colors from the lights.

Niall roars, stealing a drink from Stan’s fingers and Harry’s hand, dragging through all of the swaying bodies towards the dance floor.

“Think we’ll find him fucked out of his mind in a few hours?” Louis asks, grinning into Zayn’s shoulder.

Zayn gives a careless shrug, pounding back a sour tequila shooter (it’s all lime and tart and brilliant) before exhaling.

“Harry won’t let him die,” he replies.

“True,” Louis sighs, curling an arm around Zayn’s spine. “What about the pup?”

Zayn gives a quick look over his shoulder to where Stan is shoving various drinks at Liam, watching the way Liam fumbles with each of them as he chokes them back. It’s amusing and a bit fascinating – this boy slowly wadding towards being a man. His cheeks are flushed, pupils blown, something trembling around him like fireflies.

It’s a splintered spark of confidence that Zayn’s starting falling for –

Stop. No. _Shit_.

Zayn nicks Louis’ beer for a quick swallow, lighting up a ciggy, exhaling this deep breath of fog from his nose. He looks away for Liam, staring at all of the electricity in the club, the neon waves and contagious energy spreading through his veins.

“He’s with me,” he finally says, taking another puff. “I’ll keep ‘im safe.”

“Zayn?” Louis hums, flicking up an eyebrow, this questioning little smile that Zayn deliberately ignores.

“He’s with me,” he repeats. He takes another breath of smoke before he fully exhales the last and Zayn doesn’t bother saying anything else.

He thinks, hesitantly, he doesn’t really need to.

||

The dance floor is this dizzy constellation of monochromatic blue and green stars. It’s grinding bodies, spilling drinks, a waterfall of shots half-swallowed. A throbbing energy moving through his body like a hurricane. All of the tequila and beers clouding up his thoughts, relaxing his muscles.

And _Liam_ –

He’s this breathless piece of art in front of Zayn. Fingertips scared to touch, lazy smiles between songs, cheeks still stained pink but he’s leaning into his confidence. He’s toeing the edge.

His button down is half undone, sweat soaking his collarbones, his caramel birthmark exposed when he stretches his neck for a laugh. There’s nothing abashed about his dancing, not even when girls start to crowd around him to grind but –

Liam always shuffles closer to Zayn with a giggle, with nervous fingers brushing Zayn’s hip like he’s trying to silent explain it all to them. To _everyone_.

Almost, Zayn thinks. Liam is so close to letting the alcohol and the nerves go. So close to shouting to the world that he’s into Zayn like Zayn is –

Zayn groans under the music, easing into Liam, spreading his fingers over Liam’s spine when someone gets too close to drag Liam in. His thumb draws a jagged line over the dimples low on Liam’s back and he licks salt off his lips, the last of the tequila, smiling.

He fucking presses Liam into his hips and waits for Liam to crack.

Liam shoots him this startled look that gently fades when the music spins louder. A soft grin trails over candy pink lips and Liam’s hands find Zayn’s waist so quickly like he was waiting for Zayn to make the first move.

This nervous smile twisted on his lips like he wants Zayn to own him in front of a hundred strangers.

“Um, this is,” Liam starts, leaning in, lips dragging against Zayn’s ear. “I don’t usually dance like – “

Zayn snorts, palming Liam’s spine until their hips slowly start to grind. “Me neither.”

He can feel Liam’s laugh through his chest and he can almost taste Liam’s cologne, his aftershave in the heart of this unwound crowd. Radiant stars all around and he feels like the fucking _sun_. This glow all over his skin with Liam’s nose nuzzling his cheek.

Their hips find an awkward rhythm, nothing like Zayn _wants_ but he’s uncoordinated and Liam’s too shy to lead them so –

Liam arches his spine to grind closer and Zayn sways with him. He watches the crinkles around Liam’s eyes when he laughs anxiously, feels the marks Liam’s fingers are leaving behind from squeezing his waist too tight.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his heart hammering along to the music. “Liam, you just – “

A spark of a smile spills over Liam’s lips. He’s too embarrassed to own it but he’s cocky enough to shove his half-hard cock over Zayn’s like _‘you too’_ is caught behind his lips.

Zayn follows the music, all of the _‘you’re the light you’re the night you’re the color of my blood’_ around them, sparing a free hand to the nape of Liam’s neck.

Liam flows into the momentum, grinning, their foreheads touching. Their skin sticky with sweat. All of these aching breaths in their throats and the toxic colors streaking past Zayn’s vision like a rainbow of falling stars.

He watches a pink tongue wet Liam’s lips – _almost_. Maybe he’s brave enough or maybe Zayn’s too drunk to know any better but –

“Hey,” he whispers, crawling his fingers into the sharp hairs at the back of Liam’s head. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” Liam laughs, rolling his hips. Shiny pink lips from too many drinks stretch wider. “Alright?”

“Alright,” Zayn repeats.

Their hips find the pace, the _‘I’ll let you set the pace cause I’m not thinking straight’_ in their ears. His focus blurs over Liam’s half-lidded eyes for a moment and everything is soft in his vision.

Every inch of Liam melts into him.

He’s not expecting this – the foam floating from the rafters above their heads. An explosion of frothy bubbles that the people dancing squeal at when it casts down like a blizzard. The clouds of white and sticky soap coating their clothes. The roar of the crowd over _‘my head spinning around I can’t see clear no more what are you waiting for?’_ hits him like a comet.

Liam hitches his hips over Zayn’s and shoves his mouth against Zayn’s before his next breath. A kiss like a tornado. Something salty and sour from the tequila but sugary from that round Louis bought all of them an hour ago. A soothing tongue over Zayn’s teeth and he sucks on Liam’s bottom lip with fluttering eyelashes over his cheeks.

The angles change rapidly, Zayn giving up control for the way Liam moans over his lips. It’s a hazy snog, feels like seconds. His scruff burns over Liam’s chin and a shaking hand tugs through his damp hair to set the pace.

They kiss under a wave of foam until Zayn feels something swelling all over.

Until his lips ache and Liam can’t stop smiling under the lights. A red mouth and laughter lines visible when he smiles. They sway a little less anxiously and Zayn crowds his own grin over Liam’s birthmark.

He keeps his face buried in Liam’s neck, rubbing his nose over the tendons. Zayn inhales Liam’s scent and, drunkenly, memorizes the smell.

(He wants to associate it with _home_ for a lifetime or until he’s sober enough to remember why he’s mucking around with this silly volleyball team in the first place.)

 

||

 

“Is this a date?” Liam asks, a flinching smile broad on his lips, flipping over the menu repeatedly.

It’s just some Indian cuisine standby on the edge of Cambridge. It’s not particularly breathtaking – simple, hardwood floors, colorful art hung along the walls. This air of _home_ with welcoming staff and dishes that remind Zayn of his mum.

It reminds Zayn of home and Liam has started to feel like, well –

Zayn swallows, shaking his head.

“Do we do those now?” Liam wonders, nudging Zayn’s ankle with his foot under the table. He drags a finger over all of the dishes on the menu, scrunching his brows, biting at the tip of his tongue as he reads them over. “I mean, we’ve never actually – “

“No,” Zayn says immediately, furrowing his own brow. He seizes his bottom lip with his teeth to take the sting out of his voice. “Maybe. Dunno, man. Just shut up and order.”

Liam grins across the table. His auxiliary hand crawls slowly over the table, covering Zayn’s in the middle. A warm palm molded over Zayn’s knuckles – something Liam has never done before.

Not so openly. So bravely.

“It’s a date?” Liam inquires, his cheeks burning pink under the lights.

Zayn snorts, looking down. He spreads his fingers until they can wrap around Liam’s and he keeps his arm stretched awkwardly while reading over the menu.

“Shut it,” he laughs.

“I’ve never,” Liam huffs, looking down. “Never really had any of this stuff.”

“Haven’t?” Zayn half-wonders, tilting his head. “My mum makes most of these dishes back home. Brilliant stuff.”

Liam’s shoulders go a little tight before he shakes his head, flustered and pinker. He blinks up, this crooked grin Zayn can’t stare away from. “Order for me?”

In his chest, something rattles but Zayn smiles gently before nodding.

They’re still damp and sweaty from practice, their bags kicked under the table, their bodies wrapped in baggy hoodies and loose shorts. It’s not the sort of date Zayn’s ever bothered taking someone on –

The kind that comes with flowers and star gazing and a long goodnight snog on the stoop.

And it’s a reminder that Zayn’s not even bothered to ask Liam on a date. Or pursue him, not on purpose. It’s just – they’re like these two dim stars gravitating towards each other. Sitting in orbit but never colliding.

But there’s this unspoken friction that Zayn loves. These accidental kisses and unnecessarily long walks back to their rooms after practices and this connection on the court that everyone is starting to notice.

(Not in the _inappropriate_ way that he knows Liam fears. Its loud jokes about Liam always setting the ball to Zayn during matches and teases about the way Liam blushes or catcalls whenever Zayn offers to help Liam with his setting drills.)

Instead of thinking, Zayn listens to Liam talk all about Wolverhampton over three different curry dishes. They sample masala tea while chatting about their families. Zayn watches Liam bite nervously over his lip when he talks about crushing over some boy (and Zayn’s chest tightens, unexpectedly, at Liam fancying another bloke he’s never met) when he was sixteen.

He feeds Liam spicy korma and whispers all about his favorite authors. Their feet brush and budge under the table, fingers still twisted in the view of the waiter, breaths synchronized as they list all of their favorite Batman characters.

Zayn feels shameful when he bites gently over his lip watching Liam sample all of the dishes. His tongue flicks over his lips to leave a wet shine but it distracts Liam enough that he drops biryani in his lap. Zayn chuckles while Liam shoots him a frustrated glare but his face softens when Zayn bumps their knees together.

“Why didn’t you ever try harder?” Liam asks before they order up cups of kulfi. “I mean, like. You’re brilliant. You’ve got really good, um, senses?”

“ _Acute_ ,” Zayn corrects under his breath, smiling down at their hands.

“Acute,” Liam repeats, giggling. “You’re better with words.”

( _and you’re better with me_ , Zayn thinks, a stubborn smile on his lips)

He sighs, keeping his eyes low, drawing shapes with his thumb over Liam’s skin. “I never really,” he shrugs. “I just _didn’t_. Got a bit of a temper, I s’ppose.”

Liam snickers and Zayn kicks his ankle, frowning.

“Danny and me,” he starts and it feels like he’s exposing too much. He’s melting out of his armor and it’s just for this boy. Not even for Louis, he thinks, does he talk like this.

“We started in this small club and I was awful but he was great. He pushed me to get better so I could come with him wherever he went,” Zayn explains.

Their tea has gone cold, their dishes forgotten, this fullness in his belly (and one in his chest too) with warm fingers squeezing around his.

Liam leans on an elbow, tilting his head like he’s fascinated.

“I didn’t want t’ get left behind,” Zayn adds, his voice scratchy, vulnerable. “But I got better and he didn’t. And I didn’t want to, like, I couldn’t be _better than him_ because he was so into it. And I wasn’t. I was just good, y’know?”

He blinks up and Liam nods slowly, his smile stretched enough to curve his cheeks.

“We don’t talk much anymore,” Zayn shrugs, halving his focus on Liam, breathing slower.

The buzz between them is tangible. Zayn looks up quickly when Liam clears his throat. They stare too long, caught in the clouds, awkward smiles and breathless chuckles.

(and suddenly Zayn gets it all – the magnetic field he always avoids and why he’s never bothered with falling for someone he barely knows)

(because that uncomfortable space between _‘I want’_ and _‘I can’t do anything without you’_ is fucking maddening in the worst ways possible)

“Lads, lads,” Louis shouts, leading a charge of most of the team following him into the restaurant.

Their kits are spotted with rain and they’re loud, knocking into tables, drunken university blokes still feeling the throb from a good practice.

Liam’s hand quickly drags away from Zayn’s, all of his sureness dimming when the other players shove a bunch of tables together, crowding around them like a flock of starving vultures.

Harry plops down into a chair next to Liam, Niall and Louis bracketing Zayn in, Andy already stealing a menu from another couple’s table.

“ _Starved_ , mate,” Niall sighs, slumping onto Zayn’s shoulder.

“Was this a date?” Harry hisses a little too happily, reaching over them for leftover taftan. He bites into it with a grin, trading devious looks between Zayn and Liam.

“No,” Liam whispers but Zayn grunts a protesting noise immediately.

“Yes,” he pouts, elbowing Louis away when he reaches for Zayn’s tea. “A nice date until you lot showed up.”

There’s an echo of laughter around the table, soft teases directed at Liam when he starts to blush furiously, but –

In the middle of the mocking jokes and noisy, restless lads, Liam sneaks a hand across the table to grab Zayn’s. He squeezes at it and Zayn feels that rush again –

And his hand just stays there, wrapped up in Liam’s, watching all of the confidence start to unfold brightly in the middle of the team.

 _His team._ Zayn’s gang of rebels.

“ _So_ ,” Andy smirks down the table, raising his eyebrows at them, “the little shit Malik does have an actual heart? Bloody damn time.”

The chorus of laughs, cheaply smug grins all around the table, only flusters Zayn slightly but not enough for him to drag his hand away from Liam’s.

(not for one second)

 

||

 

This feels different ( _he_ feels different, too) – this angle of their lips, this easiness of their hands, this position against the wall.

This _Liam_.

The same Liam (no, _different_ ) who spent two hours in a crowded Indian restaurant with his fingers twisted around Zayn’s while all of their teammates fussed over food and laughed until they were breathless. Liam, with his shameless smile and pink cheeks, keeping an ankle pressed along Zayn’s under the table and grinning over desserts while Andy tossed naan bread at Danny and Harry told the most dreadfully slow stories about growing up in Holmes Chapel.

This Liam with crinkles around his eyes when Louis made a joke. This boy who skimmed his thumbnail over Zayn’s skin for a reaction – no, for his _attention_. Just to stare at Zayn until Zayn was the shy one.

Until he was flustered and his skin was pink all over and all he wanted to do was drag Liam all the way back to his room.

It’s all different and Zayn feels a little blindsided by how amazing all of it is.

Strong hips keep Zayn pinned to the wall, his knees bracketing Liam’s bare hips, arms tangled around Liam’s neck. There’s a sturdy hand under his bare arse, playful fingers teasing the rim of Zayn’s hole, a spare hand splayed over Zayn’s spine for support. His ankles hook over the small of Liam’s back for an angle and ( _fuck_ ) he’s never imagined shagging like this but –

Liam spreads a smile over the center of Zayn’s throat, dotted kisses leaving Zayn’s skin hot. Their trainers are kicked in a corner, hoodies in a wrinkled pile by the door. His pants are hanging off a lamp shade, Liam’s boxers on the door knob outside (a _‘just in case’_ instead of a _‘do not disturb’_ for that bastard Louis) and there’s lube smeared all over the back of Zayn’s thighs.

“Arch for me,” Liam whispers, this filthiness soaking his voice.

Zayn whimpers and complies so willingly. He presses his shoulders blades into the hard surface of the wall, bowing his spine inward so Liam’s fingers can slip _in_ –

“Fuck,” he drags out, eyelashes fluttering like a firefly’s wings over his cheeks.

Liam hums his appreciation under Zayn’s jaw, sliding his middle finger knuckle-deep inside of Zayn.

“Tell me if it hurts,” Liam mutters over Zayn’s collarbone.

“I’ll tell you when it stops feeling – fuck, Liam, _deeper_ ,” Zayn pleads, flexing his biceps around Liam’s ears. His fingers shake to scratch over Liam’s shoulders but he manages that small sliver of control.

Just that small one because he chokes off a moan, thighs trembling as he tries to push down on Liam’s finger.

Liam giggles before he drags kisses over all of Zayn’s skin – shoulder to shoulder.

“Might have you begging before it’s over, yeah?”

“Piss off,” Zayn scoffs before he rotates his hips for more pressure when Liam’s finger starts to slip out.

(And he’s not against being submissive or too abashed to whine for _‘more, Liam, please’_ but he has manners.

He has some sort of reputation to keep with this fresher that has amazing hands and soothing lips and this indescribable arrogance under all of the layers.)

Liam sinks his teeth over a bruise his lips creates and slips two fingers in to disarm all of Zayn’s senses. He feels breathless and heavy, struggling to keep his weight balanced but Liam –

He’s strong. His arms flex and he steadies Zayn to the wall. The muscles in his thighs tense, all of his core strength diverted to making Zayn feel safe.

Safe and warm and _all Liam’s_.

“You’re not breathing,” Liam whispers with a small laugh, brushing pink lips just behind Zayn’s ear. “And I want to _hear_ you.”

Zayn hitches his next inhale, waiting for the – _oh_.

Liam’s fingers corkscrew, twist, thrust in deep until Zayn can feel the tickle of the tips over the bundles of nerves he knows Liam’s unaware of.

Because this boy is still new to all of this. So unpracticed. Fresh and unmarked.

“M’fine,” Zayn grunts, stretching his neck to expose all of the tendons (and to keep Liam from seeing the way his eyes roll back) before he fucks back onto Liam’s fingers. “Just need you to stretch me a little more.”

“Okay,” Liam whispers, ghosting his breath over Zayn’s cheek. “Tell me when you’re ready.”

Zayn exhales a husky breath, nodding. He feels Liam’s thumb lazily circling his stretched rim, teasing. Two fingers press and brush, pulling him apart and he waits. He waits until that acid burn in his belly ignites all the way up to his chest. Until his legs go numb from squeezing around Liam’s hips.

The window is open from an earlier chain smoking session over Lord Byron before practice and Zayn sniffs at the crisp scent of autumn air. That tang of dead leaves and leftover pumpkins, fresh dirt and hung-dry cotton that he loves. The stereo is still on low, a quiet hum between their breaths.

He can barely make out the song or the words (a Coldplay tune Harry introduced him to a few weeks back) but he puts all of his focus into the rhythm when Liam nudges in a third finger.

“Tight,” Liam hisses, accidentally bumping his hard dick to the curve of Zayn’s bum. “So damn tight, Zayn. Fuck. Can’t imagine getting my cock in – “

“Shut up,” Zayn groans, even as he grinds down on Liam’s fingers.

They fit roughly along the wall, chests pressed tight, arms sore from all of the exertion, lips nudging but never really connecting. Liam’s cock keeps leaving a sticky trail over Zayn’s skin and his own throbbing dick sits uncomfortably between their bellies, slicking their abdomens.

“Need more lube?”

Zayn bites his lip to hold in the _‘need your cock’_ he’s been itching to shout at Liam. He shakes his head instead, nuzzling Liam’s nose.

It’s delicate, a little too sentimental, but he likes the way it cracks at Liam’s exterior. The way he goes from intense to soft so expectantly.

Liam retaliates with a nip to Zayn’s bottom lip, a tender tug that Zayn giggles at. The distraction is enough before Liam’s fingers skim repeatedly over that soft nub of nerves and –

“Shit,” Zayn moans, tipping his head back, knocking his skull into the wall.

Liam buries his enthusiasm in the hollow of Zayn’s neck, shoving two fingers over and over against Zayn’s prostate. Something jolts in his dick, a trickle of precome that dribbles down the underside of his shaft. The pressure is _intense_ and it’s been so fucking long.

(It’s like needing a cigarette ten thousand miles above land.)

Zayn exhales roughly and drowns in the _‘call it magic call it true I call it magic when I’m with you’_ from the stereo.

Liam pauses, brushing a soft kiss to Zayn’s jaw, stretching all of Zayn’s muscles with his fingers. “If I recall properly,” he says with a smirk, dragging his fingers slowly out, “you wanted me to be a good lad f’r you?”

Zayn scratches fingers over Liam’s buzzed hair, biting at his lip. There’s something ruthlessly dark in Liam’s eyes – this playfulness that can’t be named or tamed. Fingers sliding in, popping out of Zayn noisily. This wet backbeat to _‘still I call it magic when I’m next to you’_ echoing from the speakers.

He gives a small nod when Liam taunts him with fingers ghosting over his prostate.

“How you doing babe?” Liam wonders, cocking his head.

He feels breathless and lightheaded but all he can think to do is whimper.

Liam is some sort of illusionist with one arm around Zayn, keeping him pressed to the wall while clumsily rolling a condom down his cock and the barest brush of the latex against Zayn’s hole makes him yelp.

“Almost ready?” he asks when their foreheads stick together from the sweat.

Zayn keeps one hand pressed to the nape of Liam’s neck, the other skimming down over the bumps of his ribs under his stretched skin. His cock leaks wetly against Liam’s stomach with trembling thighs shaking for a grip.

He drags Liam in for a rough kiss. He likes the way Liam’s mouth is bruised and red, swollen when he pulls off. Fuzzy eyebrows lift and Zayn just wants to keep kissing him but –

“Be a good boy,” he mutters, chewing his own lower lip, “and fuck me.”

Liam croons over his jaw and Zayn stretches with a little anticipation deep in his bones. He feels the head press to his wet hole, a shiver jolting up his spine as Liam’s hands slide under to hold Zayn up from behind his thighs. He smears kisses over Zayn’s neck, nudging in and Zayn hisses softly. It’s like lightning in his veins but he squirms until Liam’s fully sheathed inside of him.

Their sweat makes the grip loose but Liam balances all of his strength in his arms and legs, holding Zayn against the wall. He stays buried in Zayn, panting along his collarbones while Zayn drags tiny kisses to the sweat slicking his forehead.

“Good?”

Zayn giggles over Liam’s temple. “You can fuck me, babe.”

Liam shudders a breathless laugh from his chest. “Just letting you know, darling,” he says, his voice raw and thin, hips drawing back before he slams back in, “don’t quite think I’m gonna last that long. You’re just so – _wow_. I mean, babe, just watching the way you were taking my fingers has me so – “

Zayn whimpers, scratching his scruff over Liam’s cheek.

“Shut up, you idiot. Don’t care how long you go but – just fuck me like a good lad.”

“Gonna beg?” Liam teases but his hips are already moving, a smooth motion unlike that nervous boy on the dance floor a week ago.

Zayn swallows, shaking his head.

“C’mon, Zaynie,” Liam chuckles, biting kisses to all of the bright red stars he’s left over Zayn’s skin. “Don’t be shy.”

A shameless moan slips past Zayn’s lips and he anchors his spine to the wall but fucks down onto Liam’s slick cock like this is all he needs.

(Some babbling boy with little experience and incredible tone in his muscles and so fucking soothing with his lips.)

They’re far from poetic or harmonic with any of this. Everything is out of place and clumsy – everything but their hips. They find a motion there that gentles goosebumps all over Zayn’s skin and leaves Liam’s jaw slack. He’s nothing but sweet moans now, a hush of _‘and with all your magic I disappear from view’_ right along the shell of Zayn’s ear.

Liam jackhammers into Zayn like a teenager learning to use his hips for the first time. Zayn scratches angry crimson marks to the back of Liam’s neck, a hand flat against his chest to watch the space between them. To stare at his cock firm up, slapping between them. Long, stringy strips of precome splattering off their skin.

The muscles between their stomachs clenching every time Liam gets deep enough to hit Zayn’s prostate, his arse muscles automatically squeezing around the base of Liam’s dick.

Zayn feels loose but coiled around Liam. His thighs squeezing Liam’s hips and the tightness in his chest, hands struggling for a grip. All of his breaths hitched, this mantra of Liam’s name over and over until it sounds a lot like something else –

A lot like a feeling, an emotion Zayn is foreign to.

“Liam, you’re right on my,” Zayn yelps and Liam thrusts harder until Zayn shakes. “Fuck, stop, stop. You’ll make me – “

“I’m so fucking close,” Liam huffs into Zayn’s collarbone, hips moving faster. Unsteady thrusts now.

Liam tries for something slower, one hand on the small of Zayn’s back, the other cupping a thigh. He shoves this happy, incoherent smile to Zayn’s lips and Zayn’s unsure how to react.

His body is losing its give and his mind is snapped in two so he wades along the wave.

“Liam, Liam,” he moans until his throat is too raw for words.

They lose synchronization midway but the friction is still incredible. He’s not coordinated enough (not now, at least) to slip a hand between them, to circle the head of his cock for a few pulls but Liam presses all along him and it’s enough.

He knocks his head back against the wall again and Liam follows, mouthing _‘still believe in magic well yes I do’_ to the base of Zayn’s throat.

Zayn feels all of his nerves twist around his muscles and he comes like that – his dick gliding over the ridges of Liam’s belly, Liam’s mouth under his jaw, the unfocused view of the campus from his open window.

Thick pearls drip down Liam’s stomach and all of Zayn’s muscles squeeze tightly around Liam. It’s like –

 _Oh wow_.

“Keep coming,” Liam whines with a furrowed brow, closed eyes, thumping Zayn into the wall with his thrusts.

Zayn exhales restlessly, tiny drops still pulsing out of his slit, sliding down his half-hard cock. He relaxes under Liam’s strength and, mindlessly, he whispers, “Please.”

Liam freezes against him, shoved deep, pulsing with these involuntary trembles when he comes. It’s intense – the way all of Liam’s muscles strain, the deep exhales, the achy moans like he’s never been this overwhelmed.

It tricks a smile to Zayn’s lips and he forgets how sore he’s feeling and how his spine feels brutalized.

Pins and needles. His legs are numb and there’s pins and needles in his feet when they touch the floor. Liam’s still panting into his mouth and they kiss lazily with their hands cupping each other’s cheeks.

To stay close. To stay _right here_.

“Can’t feel my arms, mate,” Liam laughs into Zayn’s mouth.

Zayn kisses the rest of the embarrassing words off of Liam’s lips, smiling.

“Stay with me,” he mutters into a slow kiss and it’s meant to mock Liam but –

It feels like so much more that he forgets to stop thinking when Liam nods and kisses him back.

 

||

 

The view from the bench is different now –

It’s exhausting, actually. He’s rotated out for Niall when it’s his turn to move into the back court and he’s sat with most of the freshers, fluffy white towel hanging limp around his shoulders, Gatorade bottle squeezed between his fingers. The adrenaline is still rolling in waves through his blood, his heart this caged beast behind his ribs, his palm still throbbing from his last spike.

He hasn’t bothered with his pile of comics or text books shoved in his shoulderbag for too many games now. There’s something too urgent in his system when he’s on the bench. A need that keeps buzzing until those three incredibly long rotations pass and he’s back on the court.

Until he’s back at Liam’s side, following his lead, sprinting towards every ball Liam tosses him.

Another spike. Another fake towards the defense. Another set won, secrets smiles between Liam and him like they know something the rest of the crowd can’t see.

The chemistry, the way they move in unison. Fucking Jaeger pilots like in _Pacific Rim_ – two minds into one, an indefensible offense.

Cardiff is brilliant – quick defense. Strong outside hitters. Tall, limber, always trying to follow Liam’s motions but they’re unprepared when he dumps the ball on second contact or how smoothly he back sets to Zayn or Danny.

The team is losing by four points, six points away from taking the match.

Zayn sucks in a shallow breath, coughing it right back out when Liam steps up to the service line. Sweat crawls down his temple, dark strands of his hair escaping his top knot to trickle down into his eyes. He grins into his knuckles when Liam tries (and _fails_ ) to wink at him before tossing the ball for his jump serve.

 _Ace_.

Harry flops down next to him, messy curls barely pulled into a ponytail, stretching out skinny limbs and yawning.

“They’re good,” he mumbles, draining a Gatorade.

Zayn nods stiffly, narrowing his eyes to watch Liam spin the ball on his palm, balance it, toss it.

Another ace.

“But fuck,” Harry whistles, giving a halfhearted shout when the players on the court huddle around Liam, slapping his back, scrubbing over his buzzed hair with excited hands. “Liam just keeps getting better, man.”

Zayn gives him another sharp nod, ducking his head to hide his smile. He can feel the heat automatically blister his cheeks – stupid, teenage blush. He needs a fucking ciggy and a long walk or a good novel.

(He has a list of distractions he’s been using lately – _Ways to Forget the Puppy_ , created and distributed by Louis, of course – to keep his focus but Liam keeps crawling back into his chest.

Curled up, snug, making everything else under Zayn’s ribcage uncomfortable.

Or _wonderful_ , he’s not certain.)

“You two were brilliantly loud the other day,” Harry hums, knocking a bony elbow to Zayn’s rib. “Shagging in the showers when you thought we all left?”

Zayn hiccups a breath, turning away to cover the red stains on his face, down his neck.

“We weren’t – “

“Oi, fucking c’mon with it, Zayno,” Harry laughs, curling an ink-smattered arm around Zayn’s shoulders, dragging him back.

(and Zayn absolutely hates the nickname – the _‘Zayno’_ Niall and Harry throw at him now like he and Liam are one or some dumb ship name people would use on social media if they were even popular enough to warrant such a thing)

“I’m jelly, man,” Harry grins, fingers scratching over the buzzed sides of Zayn’s head. “Getting cock that often? And Payno is _fit_ , bro. He really fancies you.”

Zayn sinks a little, shoulders tight. “How d’you even know?” he hisses, averting his eyes when a few of the freshers smirk at him like they’re all in on it.

Stupid fucking band of rogues with their Captain Tommo and this unending brotherhood that he’s sort of in love with now.

( _Shit_.)

Harry blinks for a moment before grinning wildly. “You don’t see it, d’you?” he says, barking out a laugh.

Zayn strays his eyes to Liam – spinning the ball, a slow but deep breath in, tossing the ball, jumping to meet it halfway.

A third ace and the crowd, thicker than it’s ever been, spilling out of the stands now and all along the sidelines ever since they started winning match after match, rattles the gym with their howls.

Liam looks sheepish, welcoming another round of hugs from the other players, cupping the nape of his neck but with a tint of arrogance in his boyish smile.

(The kind of cocked up grin he wears in Zayn’s room, crawling up his mattress, dragging it all over the inside of Zayn’s thighs before he slurps around the head of his prick like a dirty porn star.)

“He’s quite in – “

“Christ,” Paddy hisses before Harry can finish and Zayn blinks up to Liam spiking another serve just outside of Cardiff’s libero’s reach.

A fourth point and Liam looks like he’s barely trying now.

Harry hops off the bench, crowing, Ashton and Calum crowding around him to bark enthusiastically at Liam.

The shy kid with strong shoulders, blush tinting his round cheeks, this coating of pride all over when he catches Zayn’s eyes halfway across the gym.

He’s fucking ruined by this dumb boy and he swallows down Gatorade until that sour taste in his mouth is from the electrolytes rather than Liam’s easy smile.

 

||

 

The team shouts their way through a rowdy _‘carry me home tonight, carry me home tonight’_ in the locker room after their victory.

Six undefended serves from Liam later, everyone so keyed up on the endorphins and dopamine, snapping towels at each other while laughing. Half-naked lads (and some arse out, limp willies wagging as they run around the benches like idiots) in arms after a battle.

Another enemy conquered.

Afterwards, when everyone is stumbling down the halls towards the night, towards the campus and late night pubs, Zayn pins Liam to a locker to kiss the energy out of his blood.

To press silent words like _‘you’_ and _‘thanks’_ and _‘incredible’_ all over Liam’s smiling mouth.

He doesn’t leave without finger-shaped bruises on his hips from Liam’s hands. He refuses to walk away from the cocky little smirk Liam gives him when he drags a broad hand down his shorts, over the outline of his hard dick. An invitation that Zayn groans at.

(and they barely make it across the lawn, up to Zayn’s room before Zayn bruises up his knees on the floor sucking the wetness from Liam’s cock to turn him back into that blushing boy from a party months ago.)

 

||

 

“Is it too early to say it?” Louis asks, splayed across Zayn’s bed on his stomach, picking through an army of gummy bears laid out across the sheets, leaving behind all of the red ones for Zayn.

“Say what?” Zayn asks, sucking in a breath of smoke from the edge of the bed.

It’s half midnight on a Sunday and Zayn feels restless. The November sky is inky, bruised with bits of purple, a bluish moon woven into the clouds. He can hear the 1975 on the stereo, the volume low again, this mocking _‘according to your heart my place is not deliberate’_ that he wants to shut off.

He sniffs through another puff and hopes the smoke will fog up his mind.

The nicotine and late hour and Louis’ banter will smoke out the way he wants Liam under his sheets, smiling dopily into one of his pillows, chasing the cold from Zayn’s bare skin with his fingers.

“To say I was right,” Louis shrugs.

“What are you fucking on about?” Zayn laughs, knees pulled to his chest, his spine curved until he’s an upright ball of tight nerves.

Louis shrugs again, popping a few candies in his mouth. “We’re brilliant, bro. The team,” he explains, rolling to his back, kicking his bare feet into the windowsill. “We’ve made the tournament, dude. We never make the tournament. We always lose to some London school. Can’t remember the last time this bloody university slaughtered Westminster.”

Zayn exhales a foggy breath, wriggling his toes. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Louis repeats, grinning at the ceiling. “We’re fucking marauders out there, man. We’re like the Morlocks on _X-Men_. Remember them?”

Zayn smirks, puckering his lips around his cigarette, pushing hair out of his face.

“You’re an idiot.”

“And you’re a knob,” Louis pouts, tossing a gummy in the air to catch with his open mouth. He misses, some yellow bear sitting on the bridge of his nose. “But it feels quite amazing. We’re _giants_ , Zayner.”

Zayn smiles into the sleeve of his Henley, breathing smoke out from his nose.

“Kings.”

“We’re like the Beatles.”

“Kanye and Jay-Z,” Zayn giggles, taking another meditative puff.

“Or whatever,” Louis grins, a green bear wadding on the flat of his tongue like a piercing. “Told you we’d bloody ace it this year. You never listen.”

Zayn gives a rough shrug, reaching back to drag spare fingers through Louis’ messy hair. He tilts his head back, blowing off scrappy clouds of smoke, watching it hover before disappearing.

“It’s almost exam time,” Louis groans, rolling to his side, picking through the gummies. “And hols. Going home this year?”

Zayn leans back on the hand behind his back, curling his lips around the cigarette, inhaling the smoke until his lungs start to burn.

“Dunno,” he exhales. “Probably not. Just wanna chill. Muck about while no one’s here, y’know?”

Louis hums a reply, sitting his chin on his knuckles.

“Your family probably misses you.”

“Probably,” Zayn echoes. He dulls that ache in his chest at the thought of Safaa unwrapping her gifts, Waliyha crowded with Doniya around some artificial tree, giggling at all of the dumb selfies they’ll take of themselves.

His mum in the kitchen, baking, his baba in the lounger with his feet up, watching old footy matches.

Bradford wrecked in snow with empty streets and empty dreams he keeps running from.

“What about the pup?” Louis wonders, rolling back to his stomach, this restless sun romping in a cloud of sheets.

Zayn sniffs, stubbing out his cigarette. He falls back on the bed next to Louis, flicking red gummy bears onto his tongue.

“What about ‘im?”

Louis smiles over his knuckles, tugging at the twin piercings in Zayn’s ear. “Gonna take him home with you? Meet the in-laws and shit?”

Zayn scrunches his brows immediately, wrinkling his mouth into a scowl.

“Lou, it’s not like – “

“Like _that_ ,” Louis finishes for him, scoffing. “Same old Zayner, I c’n see. You study romance but know nothing of it, bro. Complete waste of those brilliant looks, honestly.”

Zayn lifts an eyebrow at Louis. There’s still hot smoke in his throat and he huffs it out rather than being cross with Louis.

(Deep down, he knows Louis is trying. Trying to be a good best mate and a wingman and something of a good influence but Zayn ignores it all of the time.

He’s stubborn and so is Louis.)

“It’s not just like a,” Louis pauses with a scrunched brow, looking painfully thoughtful, pushing all of the gummy bears around on the sheets, “he’s more than a good fuck for you, right? Not that I’d know anything about a good relationship – “

“Or a healthy one,” Zayn teases, smirking at the ceiling.

Louis tosses a handful of gummies at him in retaliation. “I just don’t want you fucking about with the kid, alright? You know my rule.”

Zayn huffs a quick laugh, rubbing an idle hand over his belly, watching the dark sky chase shadows like puppets over the ceiling.

“No shagging teammates,” they say together, hushed, smiling.

Careful teeth suck in Zayn’s lower lip. “You and Nick don’t count then?”

“We didn’t _fuck_ ,” Louis scowls just out of Zayn’s view. “We didn’t – _anything_. Okay? He was an asshole. A fucking cunt.”

“You fancied him,” Zayn whispers, grinning to himself.

“I fancied a blowjob but he was a dick about it and we are not chatting about this, Malik. Get bent.”

Zayn lifts his shoulders into a nonchalant shrug, lips still stretched into a wide smile. They breathe into their silence, the radio switching songs every few exhales, a quiet strain in the room.

Their fingers feed each other gummy bears, soaking in their exhaustion, still trying to blink their eyes open just to keep the weekend as theirs.

“You should come home with me for holiday,” Louis suggests, a brilliant smile dragging over his mouth. “Help me celebrate me birthday like a true captain. Co-captain, yeah? We get on well enough when we’re drunk.”

A laugh tickles the edge of Zayn’s lips, the corners of his mouth twisting up.

“Yeah,” he breathes out, heavy eyes watering up as he stares at the ceiling for a second more. “I’ll think about it, alright?”

Louis gives a lazy nod but –

(They both know Zayn won’t come. He’ll muck about campus, drag his boots in the snow, bury himself in books for a few weeks.

The incidental loner, even with an army of mates to surround him.)

They don’t say anything more. Zayn will call Louis on his birthday, Louis will drink away the holiday, they’ll have a row and hug and laugh it all off when Louis returns on New Year’s.

It’s always the same and, for Zayn, it’s the best sort of comfort.

 

||

 

He’s got one earbud in, the November sky that hazy grey like the color of skyscrapers and fresh pavement, broken charcoal between his cold fingers as he sketches out the landscape, a half-empty cup of coffee between his boots when Danny slides onto the bench with him –

Zayn lifts a quick eyebrow, most of the campus lawn empty midafternoon and a week away from exams. Danny stares straight forward with tense shoulders, a tight jaw, hands on his knees. He sniffs, a scratchy cough, still not looking at Zayn.

(it’s something Zayn is used to now – nearly two years removed from Bradford and they still don’t speak like they’ve known each other most of their lives)

Freezing fingers from the draft and the grey sky tug out the earbud when Danny says, “You’re an asshole.”

Zayn scowls immediately, crushing bits of charcoal between his long fingers.

“Fuck you, man.”

Danny doesn’t flinch. He stares at the grass and the empty tree limbs, the roll of clouds overhead. Another sniff, a flex of his jaw.

“When we were younger, you’d chill out away from everyone and draw, bro,” Danny says, unaffected. “I’d have to drag your ungrateful arse out to play. You never wanted to be around the other kids.”

The heat in Zayn’s blood tempers off so swiftly. This melancholy symphony plays under his breath. Thoughts he’s long kicked from his mind.

He blinks down at his sketch – the library and a girl huddled over a stack of books and aimless clouds over a neat tablet filled with ridiculous drawings.

“They were mean,” Zayn mutters, more to himself than Danny. “They were shit to me.”

“Still are, mate,” Danny sighs, leaning back. He stretches an arm behind Zayn’s shoulders, never touching. “Absolute assholes, but I had your back. You had mine. Fucking brothers, even with Ant.”

“Brothers,” Zayn repeats, lower, scratching a stray line over his sketch.

“And you acted so tough, bro,” Danny continues, tipping his head back. A corner of his mouth twitches – almost a pinch of a smile there. “Always getting into fights. Had to fucking defend your honor and shit.”

“I was defending my _baba_ ,” Zayn argues without the heat. Just a mild voice scratched from a cigarette less than an hour ago. “And my family.”

“Family,” Danny recites with a small nod. “We were fam, Zee. Me, you, and Ant. Even your cousins.”

Zayn ducks his head, brushing the back of his hand across his nose, careful not to stain his skin grey.

“Had to drag your skinny arse into volleyball to keep you outta trouble, bro,” Danny mutters, a clipped laugh following. His teeth find his bottom lip again, chapped skin going wet. “You acted like you hated it but you didn’t, Zee. It was another world for you. Pretending to be awful – “

Zayn inhales sharply and that twitch of a smile finally blooms over Danny’s lips.

“Yeah, man, _I know_ ,” Danny confirms with a small jerk of his head, a quick nod. “You’ve always been better than me out there but you hid it, man. Tried t’ make me look great and I’m grateful, honestly. But you’re shit at it. You’re not very good at fooling people, fam.”

Zayn scoops a handful of dark strands from his face, leaning back.

The sky is a battleship buried at sea. Darker, all of the edges just fuzz and grey. And somehow it’s more comforting than each of Zayn’s deep breaths.

“I didn’t mean to – “

Another sharp laugh fumbles off Danny’s lips before he counters, “Fuck you, Zayn, you _did_. You knew how much I fucking loved playing and you were trying so hard to suck at it that all you did was get angry out there. Fucking yelling at refs and mouthing off at the coaches. Anything t’ keep you on the bench and keep me in the game.”

Zayn tries to swallow that boulder sitting deep in his throat, coughing into the sleeve of his leather jacket. His knees bounce, an awful habit his mum always scolds him for but he doesn’t know what to do with this vocabulary in his head – all of these words and not enough apologies.

“You were too good,” Danny smirks, the breeze pinking his cheeks and fighting against all of the product in his hair. “Got a scholarship. Got in here without trying. And then Tomlinson – “

“He didn’t replace you, Danny,” Zayn interjects but Danny’s already scoffing out a laugh.

“He did. He fucking did but I get it,” Danny shrugs. “S’cool. I just wanted to make the team. He wanted to make you incredible for the team.”

Zayn’s teeth accidentally drag too sharply over his lip, this raw red feeling throbbing all the way to his tongue.

“But the newbie? Payne – “

“ _Leeyum_ ,” Zayn says, under his breath, his chin tucked to hide all of the wonder.

Through his lashes and in his peripheral, Zayn can spot Danny’s _‘told you so’_ grin. It’s always been there – since they were eight year olds scrapping their knees in the streets. Climbing trees and throwing rocks at empty buildings. That same grin Danny wore when Zayn ran into his bedroom, showing off his acceptance letter, too high on adrenaline to notice Danny’s crumpled applications all over the beat-up carpeting in his room.

“He wants you to be great for y’self, man,” Danny finishes.

The wind gives a whistle, brown leaves barreling by their feet, the air biting at strips of exposed skin. It’s a sting that’s dulled by this guilty feeling behind Zayn’s chest. But Danny keeps smiling like –

It’s been _ages_ and it’s felt like decades but, right here, Danny makes him feel like it’s been minutes since they last spoke like this.

“And that’s why you’re an asshole,” Danny sighs, pulling his arm from behind Zayn. He drags his hands over the denim of his jeans, sniffing.

Zayn coughs into his shoulder, the oxygen too thick. He watches Danny slide a cigarette between his lips, pushing off the bench, looking over his shoulder.

“I’ve got you, man,” he says around the cigarette, shaking his head. “And you’ve got me. But it won’t matter if you don’t start being y’self. Guess that’s what uni is for, innit? Finding yourself.”

He blinks at Danny, the ache in his chest spreading and infecting all of his organs. Danny tosses him an even smirk, cuffing a hand over his cigarette to light it. His first exhale is a foggy mess of bluish clouds that contrast brilliantly with their grey surroundings.

“I’ll thank Payno one day,” Danny grins, raising his brow, lifting his shoulders into a mild shrug. “Feels like he let me see the old Bradford bad boy I grew up with. It’s nice.”

Between Zayn’s fingers he can feel smashed charcoal and in his lungs he can feel all of the black. Danny gives him a quick nod, a momentary wink before he’s dragging his heavy boots up the pavement, into the grey.

Out of view and into the grey.

Zayn slouches back on the bench, exhaling. His knuckles drag over his eyes and he pretends it’s the wind producing these heated little teardrops on his eyelashes.

Danny is right – _he’s shit at pretending_.

 

||

 

They’re piled on Zayn’s floor on a late Tuesday in university jumpers with cups of strong tea and black coffee.

It’s a week before exams and Zayn swears every inch of campus is in a panic mode. The libraries are stuffed and all of the coffee shops flooded with insomniac students ( _zombies_ , really, he thinks) trying to remember one last equation or scribble notes up their forearms in black Sharpie ink.

There’s a stain on neon pink on Harry’s mouth from biting the tip of a highlighter while furiously thumbing through notes on Machiavelli. Niall has resorted to listening to vapid tunes to distract him from medical jargon while Louis is on his _fifth_ cup of Yorkshire tea ( _‘no sugar, no honey, a real man’s brew,’_ he always says like he’s proving a point) with his feet kicked into Harry’s lap.

Liam is mindlessly teasing fingers under the hem of Zayn’s jumper, across bare skin, with scrunched eyebrows as he leafs through a companion book about Duke Ellington. He blinks heavy eyes every few seconds, groaning softly, stealing glances at Zayn when he thinks Zayn isn’t paying attention.

(Zayn always is but he lets Liam have those few moments to himself, as shamefully humiliating as they may be.)

Zayn’s half-grinning into his sleeve with a free hand resting on the small of Liam’s back. It takes him a few breaths before he realizes these are some of his new favorite things – black coffee and his teammates and raw autumn evenings.

(And Liam, too.)

There’s early snowflakes fluffy outside of his window when Louis rolls over to his stomach, whining, “What does any of this matter when I go pro and make millions of pounds in endorsements?”

Niall hiccups a laugh, right against Harry’s ear, Liam hiding his own giggle in the collar of Zayn’s jumper

(his breath is warm over Zayn’s skin, a soft mix of spearmint gum and sugary earl grey)

and Louis flips them all off before huffing.

“You’re _mediocre_ , Tommo,” Niall teases, pinching Louis’ hip to smear away his petulant frown. “Hardly a Santos.”

Harry cackles when Louis scoffs, kicking roughly at Niall’s knee. Niall yelps and swats back, wrapping pale fingers into Louis collar to drag him close enough for a messy peck on the cheek.

“But we love you Tommo!”

“Are you quite finished?” Louis growls, keeping an arm around Niall’s hip, muffling leftover swears into Niall’s throat with a gentle laugh.

“Education is the foundation of proper financial security,” Harry yawns.

“Alright, this lad needs a break,” Louis smirks, settling his feet back onto Harry’s thighs, stretching towards his tea while lazily keeping an arm around Niall too. “Your mind is nothing but silly philosophy quotes, Styles.”

“I’m studying _politics_ ,” Harry frowns.

“Oh,” Louis hums, cuddled into Niall’s chest, sipping loudly at his tea. “For how long?”

Harry’s wide-eyed, his jaw going slack before he knocks Louis’ bare ankles with a warm hand.

“Since you’ve met me.”

Niall giggles noisily into Louis’ neck and Liam shuffles close enough to sneak a few fingers under Zayn’s beanie, twisting into his thick hair.

“Wow, Tommo, d’you even bother getting to know a bloke before you start shagging?” Liam mocks, his grin stretched high into his cheeks when Louis clucks his tongue.

“We’re not fucking,” Harry and Louis say in harmony, scowling.

“Yet,” Niall whispers, his voice dropping deep and dirty. He shamelessly grinds his hips into the floor while Harry and Louis attempt ( _miserably_ ) to hide their spotty blush.

“I have rules,” Louis pouts.

“And I hear a terrible gag reflex, mate,” Niall smirks, rolling his eyes.

Louis whines into Harry’s shoulder and Harry, smiling so damn affectionately, cuddles him while stretching to tickle Niall too.

“Awful,” Zayn smiles, unconsciously leaning into Liam’s touch. “The whole lot of you.”

Louis mouths a smirking _‘fuck you’_ that unsettles a scratchy laugh from Zayn’s chest. He darts his eyes back down to a Wolverine graphic novel (he’s bored with studies about Jane Austen and he needs a _distraction_ – other than Liam) while Liam’s fingers scratch over his scalp.

They fall back into this buzz they’ve been retreating in for hours – their textbooks and little ember-hot touches between them. Small connections, wiring in Morse code this need under their skin. Their silent communication with a hand on a back or two feet touching or trading coffees and teas between them.

An unspoken pact, Zayn thinks. Their bond. Just the five of therm. So sudden and unexpected but their smiles keep chanting _‘I need you next to me always’_ loudly in their heads.

“Lads, lads. We’ve got Sheffield, our rivals, the weekend after exams,” Louis says, grinning. “It’s gonna be massive.”

Harry quirks an eyebrow, munching on a granola bar Niall’s passed around ( _‘Oi, we must eat healthy boys t’ keep our emotional-physical balance’_ he exclaimed when they all frowned at him) before he says, “I thought Oxford were our rivals?”

“They _are_ ,” Louis sighs, bolting up, sitting with his legs crossed. “But not on the court. It’s those Sheffield bastards. Assholes. They’re like our Gryffindor or summat.”

“Slytherin,” Liam corrects with a scrunch brow. “Gryffindor are the good ones, mate. We’re the good ones, right?”

Louis rolls his eyes, tutting at Liam. “Fucking bullshit, Payno. We’re _Slytherin_. Right mint bunch they were. Didn’t get enough credit.”

Harry barks a laugh while Zayn eases a hand over Liam’s mouth to muffle his protesting _‘I am not a snake, Tommo, I’m not a_ purist _, how dare you’_ with a soft chuckle.

Louis lips quirk up high. “So, our _rivals_ – “

“Since when?” Niall wonders.

“Since forever,” Louis whines, flicking Niall’s nose.

“Since Lou’s first term here,” Zayn grins, nudging Louis’ hip when he pouts. “The school has lost every game to them ever since they recruited their setter – “

“That bastard Grimshaw,” Louis hisses, crossing his arms like a pouting toddler.

“Nick?” Harry inquires, his face scrunched in confusion.

“ _Aiden_ ,” Zayn laughs as Louis whispers _‘not that twat’_ under his breath. “Their defense is pretty sick but their setter is massive out there. Genius from what I remember.”

“He’s a _cheater_ ,” Louis grunts, still scowling. “And a bastard. Absolute shit with no morals and fucking – “

Zayn snorts, reaching up to ruffle Louis’ already mussed hair. “The team hasn’t been able to get a set on ‘em since Louis got on the team. Most of the team hates them. They’re quite snarky.”

“They’re dicks,” Louis growls. Harry drags a comforting hand across Louis’ thigh but it does little to unsettle the hard set of his eyebrows, his narrowed eyes, exaggerated bottom lip.

“Well we’re different this year, right?” Harry cheers.

There’s a chorus of approving grunts from the other three but Louis barely flinches his shoulders into a shrug, sticking his tongue out at Zayn when he slaps Louis’ knee.

“Different,” he finally echoes, cherry lips relaxing into a small smile.

“Plus we’ve got our own sick setter,” Niall howls, rolling onto his tummy, cuddling into Liam’s side. “Our star player. The secret weapon. _‘Watch out for the Payno’_ is all I ever hear on all of the sports blogs.”

Liam scrunches his nose in embarrassment, cheeks lit like a sunset. He gives Niall a playful shove, rolling his eyes when Niall barks out a vibrating laugh.

“I’m not really – “

Louis scoffs, waving Liam off before grinning. “We’ve got a sick offense thanks to you Payner. And Harry’s huge at the block now – “

Harry beams proudly, preening on the way Niall swoons for him in the background.

“ – and they never got a full look at Zayner last year, so. We’ve got a chance, right?”

It’s a loaded question that’s not meant for anyone, really, but Louis looks up through his lashes at Zayn, this hint of uncertainty rimming his sharp eyes. An almost vulnerable pulse behind Louis’ eyelashes that Zayn nods at. He chews on his lower lip, thumping a loose punch to Louis’ shoulder like _‘fuck right’_ is all he can think to reply with.

“We’ll murder ‘em. Fucking destroy ‘em Lou,” Niall shouts, crawling the meters between them to smother his face into the crook of Louis’ neck.

Harry climbs into the pile, smiling wolfishly, fitting long arms around two laughing bodies. They’re a tangle of arms and legs and grins and Zayn’s still not used to whatever _this_ is but he feels himself adjusting. Slowly, but still.

Liam fixes an arm around Zayn’s hip, wriggling him across the floor, hiding his abashed grin when Zayn raises an eyebrow but they fit hip to hip so smoothly that Zayn –

His heart and lungs adjust so quickly he feels blindsided.

“My mum is coming up that weekend. She wants t’ see me before the holidays and all,” Liam mumbles, still ducking to black Zayn’s view of his grin. “We’re having dinner on Sunday and – “

“Oh, is it a date?” Louis interrupts, peeking his head up from between Niall and Harry’s chests.

“Meeting the in-laws?” Niall laughs.

“Family affair?” Harry joins in, pink lips swollen and there’s a curiously sharp red bruise forming in that space between Louis’ neck and shoulder, just under his collar.

(Zayn still doesn’t want to know, he swears.)

“No, just,” Liam exhales, squirming. Zayn bites his lip but shifts a hand under Liam to press over his chest. He feels Liam’s heart finally start to slow under his fingertips but he doesn’t bother pulling away.

“She just wants t’ visit,” Liam shrugs, blinking at the floor. “She wants to meet everyone. Says I go on and on about you lot and she’d like to maybe grab a bite? Just relax with me mates?”

“Oh, darling,” Louis swoons before Zayn can reply (or before he can shake off the nerves from all the suggestions under Liam’s tone). “You’re in love with us?”

“Everyone but you, Tommo,” Liam laughs.

“Sounds fair,” Harry smiles, lips barely detaching themselves from another strip of Louis’ exposed skin.

Zayn stares at the curve of Liam’s hidden smile, twitching fingers still rising and falling with Liam’s chest. He’s close enough to sniff at Liam’s scent, this boyish smell and a hint of citrus. Absently, he brushes the edge of his nose over Liam’s shoulder and watches Liam turn a dull pink below him.

“Sick. Knocking another team out of the tourney and meeting the fam,” Niall crows a few feet away, buried beneath Louis and Harry but still managing to grind his hips up suggestively against Louis.

There’s this buzz of laughter between them before they’re finishing coffees and teas, relaxing into their mountain of touching limbs to study again.

“You don’t mind?” Liam wonders, his voice set low, breathy.

Zayn arches a quick eyebrow, nicking the rest of Liam’s tea before he notices.

“Meeting my mum,” Liam says with a shrug like he’s neutral about it all.

Zayn shrugs back, his teeth gnawing his lip sore and ruddy. He finishes the tea, letting Liam steal his comic book without a struggle.

“Should be cool,” he mumbles.

“Cool,” Liam repeats, his brow raised and wrinkled, his smile crooked.

Zayn nods quickly before rolling away for more Jane Austen and Niall’s scratchy voice singing the Killers in the background. He keeps a spare hand under Liam, just below his chest, and waits until Liam’s muscles unwind before he gives his full focus to studying again.

(Well, he _tries_ but he keeps idling between Liam’s voice and the notion of what all of this means.

It’s not – he’s not here for this. He’s here for a scholarship and a degree but all of these little things – volleyball and teammates and studying over coffee with a boy he might be drowning in – keep getting in the way.

Fuck.)

 

||

 

Zayn swears he can feel the energy underneath the hardwood floors and all the way up to the rafters. It’s like a head rush, the way this gym echoes with cheers and stomping feet from every inch. It’s everywhere – the blue, that is. Just a rippling sea of students and faculty and fucking townies wrapped in various shades of blue and shouting wildly for them.

For this band of rebels.

( _his team_ )

It’s the fifth set, this endless back and forth battle with Sheffield. They score one point and Liam always has a comeback. Another quick set to Harry in the middle or a high toss to the outside for Andy to smash across the court. Louis is diving over every spare yard of the court, bruising his shoulders, knocking the ball back into play for one more set. Danny is serving better than he ever has, switching between fast jump serves to floaters that throw the defense off balance.

There’s some electric in their blood and their bones are made of stars and Zayn can _feel_ it.

Aiden is as good as Zayn remembers – leading his team like a fucking king on the frontline of an indestructible army. He has almost as many kills as his spikers have and Zayn can’t quite figure him out.

(But he keeps trying because Liam keeps rallying the team and Louis keeps barking at him to _‘get your head out your arse, Malik, we’re gonna crush them’_ while Niall whoops from the bench with this contagious, wild smile.)

There’s a tremble in Zayn’s chest (down two points, Harry at the service line with this nervous little grin) and it spreads all through his fingers. He keeps looking through the small squares of the net at the steely blockers. A hazy line of tall boys with large hands and emotionless expressions.

(fucking soldiers waiting on their next command)

In his fuzzy vision, Zayn keeps trying to find Liam. Somewhere on the back court, smiling dopily like he knows something the rest of the team doesn’t.

That one brave idiot who could get them all killed (or the one who could save their lives without them ever knowing it) and Zayn just wants to grab a fistful of his jersey to shout at him.

(or kiss him – probably kiss him because fucking hell – )

There’s a noisy echo in the gym from the stands, this endless _‘I believe that we will win I believe that we will win’_ that comes out like a hurricane. A fucking tidal wave as the crowd jumps around madly, hands raised in unity as they shout.

(It fills Zayn’s blood with something new – _brotherhood_.

His mates and their scrappy little plays for another win. For another reason to feel alive.)

“Give ‘em a good serve Hazza!” Niall yells from the bench and Harry’s lips finally crack into something sincere.

Zayn nearly misses it all, trying to follow Aiden, watching the ball float over the net. It’s quick – Sheffield’s libero catching the serve without trying, the pass to Aiden, a fake to the middle before the ball is tossed to the opposite hitter.

His breath is sharp in his chest, jumping with the hitter, fingers brushing the ball but – _he misses_. He’s not fast enough and he’s still floating to the ground when Louis collides with Harry on the back court, the ball smacking the hardwood, Louis falling with a yelp.

The silence is like a hum – no, it’s like a _hymn_. A quiet choir of gasps when Louis balls up, smalls hands around his ankle, Harry towering over him with a crumpled face.

Zayn feels his heart scrambling up his throat, even before the whistle. Even before Paddy and the other coaches crowd the floor, helping Louis up, carrying him to the bench. The oxygen sits somewhere in his diaphragm rather than his lungs. This lightheaded feeling where you can’t feel your fingers and it’s _forced_ breathing rather than reflexive.

He knows it before Liam whispers it, a sweaty hand on Zayn’s shoulder, Harry wiping apologetic tears from his eyes on the sidelines.

Louis is out. He’s done. A sprain, probably, but there’s no – the captain has fallen and Zayn feels lost at sea.

“Lads, lads,” Niall says, clapping, sprinting onto the court in a white jersey.

A _libero jersey_ that fits him snugly with a _’11, HORAN’_ stitched onto the back, his nervy, crooked smile exposing all of his thoughts. He huddles the players together, mid-court, the crowd still a swaying whisper of held breaths.

Niall grins in the center of them, a radiating star living in a moment.

His moment.

“Look you knobs, the best fucking thing to happen to this team is being drug to the lockers and we’ve got one thing t’ do for ‘im, alright?” Niall says, standing taller, even in a halo of players with more height and build than him. “He just wants t’ kick th’se Shef’ bastards all the way back t’ hell. The devil ‘imself wants t’ crush ‘em, alright? So let’s give the devil his due, yeah?”

Liam snorts, Harry still smearing away tears with a wrinkled smile. Calum cackles, nodding and Andy grunts happily, smacking Niall’s shoulder.

And Zayn finally, finally _breathes_. A jagged smile spreads over his raw-bitten lips and there’s five hands piled on top of each other in the middle waiting on him before they all giggle, a quick chant of _‘Cambridge Blue!’_ before they spread out.

Deep breaths and wild smiles and the crowd slowly rattles back into that rare form Zayn’s starting to love.

(along with this team and this sport and this boy in the back court with a laugh like an early summer sun)

Zayn settles back on the right side, eyeing the server, trying to track Aiden and –

“Watch the brown boy,” one of the other players mumbles. He’s tall, sharp cheekbones and skin too tight around his bones, grinning at Zayn through the netting. “Setter likes to toss to the Paki when he’s up front on receive.”

He feels something sour spread through his nerves. It infects all of his cells and the rage under his skin is barely contained by the familiarity of all of this –

That feeling of being _used_ to this. The names, the way people look at him. Bradford and too many secondary schools where he didn’t quite fit in. His skin and his religion and his family. Walking crowded halls and realizing he was the only one who looked like this.

The rejection.

Zayn swallows and feels a bitter _‘fuck you’_ surging over his tongue when Andy steps into a portion of his vision.

Andy with a scowl and large fists, standing taller and more intimidating than anything on that court. He’s glaring at the other players, breathing rough pants.

“You should keep an eye on the ball, dickhead,” Andy hisses. “And me ‘cause I’ll be the one spiking it in your fucking face, you cunt.”

Zayn blinks for a long moment, recycling already used oxygen before Andy steps over to the middle, ready for the receive.

It’s a float serve, Niall sprinting in to catch the first contact but it’s out of system. They’re all out of place for it and Zayn tries to follow the ball, tries to follow Liam.

“Over here! Li!” Andy barks with a hand raised, racing to the net.

The block is on him without hesitation, crowding his side of the net, jumping with him when Liam finally leaps into the ball and –

It’s so quick. Liam’s fingers catch and release with this untrained instinct. His eyes are on Andy but his spine arches into the toss, the ball floating behind him into –

Zayn’s palm cracks the ball at an angle and there’s no wall blocking Zayn.

Just open court.

And all Zayn hears on his way back down to the floor is the crowd growling with adrenaline and Liam’s soft _‘don’t get used to this’_ as he passes, a tender hand patting Zayn’s bum, a blushing smile over his shoulders when their eyes meet.

 

||

 

Later, the locker room is a quiet hush rather than rowdy lads chanting stupid songs in towels and pants. Echoing exhausted breaths rush through the room, heads hung a little low from the match. Worried faces when they still see medics icing Louis’ ankle, a pair of crutches propped nearby.

Zayn is slumped on a bench, elbows on his knees, sweaty hair half in his eyes. A bag of ice is taped to his shoulder, his muscles finally starting to uncoil. His lower lip is sore, achy from his nervous teeth gnawing away. His palm is still crimson, fingers throbbing, bare feet padding over the floor waiting on _something_ –

On someone to crow about their win.

About finally knocking down giants and ushering Sheffield out of their gym with sour faces.

A towel drops around his shoulders, calloused fingers scrubbing over his scalp. Zayn exhales, lifting his head and Andy is towering over him with crossed arms.

“You’re _ours_ , Malik. On and off the court,” Andy says, his tone serious, his jaw twitching. “No one talks to you like that. And no one gets to take away _who_ you are as long as we’re around.”

Zayn swallows, blinking rapidly at Andy. He nods gently and Andy flashes this proud smile, ruffling Zayn’s hair, walking away without saying anything else.

And it’s Niall who finally starts it. Niall with this stupid acoustic guitar, nudged up next to Louis on the med table, pressing a warm smile to Louis’ temple. He waits until Louis’ wounded face turns soft and happy before he’s tuning up all the right chords that everyone recognizes.

Most of the team crowding around the benches in towels and jockeys, sweaty and relieved. Goofy smiles, arms around each other, a loud hum of _‘it’s something unpredictable but in the end its right I hope you had the time of your life’_ while Stan passes out Gatorade bottles and high-fives for everyone.

He soaks it in, hiding his grin in the towel Andy gave him. His stupid teammates and this brotherhood made up of bad singing and solidarity.

Across the locker room, propped next to Andy against the lockers, he can see Liam’s wide smile and crinkled eyes and something that makes his heart _throb_ –

Something like home.

 

||

 

In this moment (and every other one, even if he won’t admit it), Zayn swears Liam’s lips taste like salted caramel. Something so madly untrustworthy in his mind. But he keeps brushing his mouth over Liam’s for a taste. His skin is like butterscotch and toffee in the dark of Zayn’s room.

It’s insane is what it is.

They’re snogging on his bed after the match, ditching out on the perfunctory pub celebration the team hollers about just for _this_ –

Zayn’s dark room with a cracked window letting in the last of autumn’s chill and a big flaxen moon outside. Smudging shadows all over their skin, lazy kisses dragging into smiles. They’re still half-dressed in their kits, Liam with a bare chest and nylon shorts while Zayn’s been trying to think of a way to cheekily slip out of his shirt without looking like a clumsy bastard for minutes now. But their hips keep grinding half-hard cocks offbeat to Harry’s favorite indie radio station in the background.

Liam sucks in a harsh breath when one of Zayn’s hands trails down the small curve of his arse, a quick squeeze through the soft material until Liam is burying his face (and his blush) in the crook of Zayn’s neck.

“So good,” Zayn murmurs, rotating his hips so Liam can feel the weight of his dick behind his joggers. “Fuck. You feel good.”

Liam hums over Zayn’s throat, tangling a hand between them to trace the outline behind the cotton.

“Wet,” Liam giggles, shifting up into a kiss, softly pinching under the tip of Zayn’s cock while it blurts out precome behind all the barriers, leaving a damp charcoal stain over his joggers.

“Fuck.”

Liam laughs into a kiss, a soothing tongue teasing past Zayn’s teeth.

“Was thinking that, too.”

Zayn snickers back, nodding, palming over Liam’s arse and rolling his hips. He’s far from smooth like a polished dancer but he finds a rhythm that Liam moans over, dragging their cocks together.

Long fingers find Liam’s jaw, tilting his chin, exposing a long line of tendons for Zayn to latch onto. He’s careful ( _‘no marks ever,’_ Louis always reminds him) but he applies enough pressure to create a galaxy of pink stars that fade almost instantly.

Liam gasps over the shell of Zayn’s ear, hands pawing at his shoulders. His hips stutter like a plea and Zayn answers automatically – a hand low on his spine, his mouth on Liam’s collarbones, tangling his legs around Liam’s to keep him anchored.

It’s a lovely pressure, their dicks rocking back and forth behind all of the material, their breaths hollow over _‘hey little girl is your daddy home did he go away and leave you all alone’_ on the stereo.

Zayn bites over Liam’s full bottom lip for a moment (for the taste) and Liam gives him a shaky smile, strong fingers gripping the hem of his shirt to finally drag it off.

“Hey,” Liam mumbles against Zayn’s mouth, teasing at the waistband of his joggers. “Lou and Andy pranked a few of us freshers before the match.”

Zayn lifts a curious eyebrow while mapping his name with solid fingers all over Liam’s spine.

Liam gives him a small nod, pulling back some. His skin is flushed, a soft sheet of sweat even though there’s a valley of goosebumps up his arms from the damp wind outside. His breaths are rough, an achy vibrato that Zayn wants to hear over and over.

“They got us,” Liam stutters, wrapping fingers around Zayn’s wrist, directing his hand to the band of Liam’s shorts, “they got us pretty awfully. It’s quite funny, actually. You’re gonna take the piss at me but – “

Those fingers guide Zayn’s under the elastic, against Liam’s hip and over –

 _Oh_.

Zayn blinks wide eyes at Liam and there’s an anxious smirk tickling Liam’s lips. He tilts his head back under the moon, all pale and hazy light across Liam’s half-lidded eyes as he helps Zayn tug off his shorts.

Excited teeth gnaw over Zayn’s lip as he drags his eyes over Liam. This boy with those crinkly eyes and laughing smile splayed over the sheets, bare except for a pair of black cotton knickers. They’re cheap, tanga-cut with a silly Batman logo stretched out over Liam’s hard prick.

Liam chews shyly over his lower lip, arching his back a little against the cool sheets. The head of his dick peeks over the band, flushed red and sticky. The material looks soft and strained over him, pulling tight around his narrow hips, his balls pushing out of the tiny pouch, curly hairs up his legs providing a striking contrast to the way the knickers hug on him.

Blush freckles across Liam’s skin when Zayn finally stares at his eyes. Broken up stars behind those eyelashes, glassy with bashful cheeks and a crooked grin.

“ _So_ ,” Liam huffs, a trembling hand already reaching out to tug at Zayn’s joggers, “I was thinking, like – you wouldn’t mind? I mean, I c’n get you off with my _mouth_ – “

Zayn exhales an unexpected whine, kicking out of his joggers.

“ – but I thought that, like, maybe you’d like t’ possibly – “

He watches the strain in Liam’s throat, his tongue wrapping neatly around the _‘fuck me’_ that hisses out so quietly.

“Or summat,” Liam says, giving a careless shrug but his hand keeps dragging roughly over Zayn’s pants, trying to trace over his twitching cock.

Zayn snorts, crawling closer, biting kisses along Liam’s lips. His fingers skim over the waistband, ghosting the tip of Liam’s cock, enjoying the stretch while Liam mewls.

“Fuck you?”

Liam gives a sharp nod, arching into Zayn, shuddering when Zayn soothes a hand across Liam’s arse. He gives a quick pinch that Liam yelps at before scooping his fingers under the cotton to wiggle a finger down the valley of Liam’s arse.

“Want me t’ fuck you babe?” Zayn whispers, his voice gone deep and scratchy.

Liam shudders an exhale. “Yes, I’ve been thinking,” he sighs into Zayn’s mouth.

“About me sliding my dick in you?” Zayn grins.

Another sharp breath, this one swallowed by Zayn, a tongue licking past Liam’s teeth.

“Thinking about me grinding up into you babe – nice and slow,” Zayn teases.

“This isn’t an Usher song, Zayn,” Liam pouts but Zayn slips another finger between his cheeks and –

Fuck. They whimper together – Liam at the caress and Zayn at the sticky remains of lube he can feel there.

He quirks an eyebrow that Liam immediately flushes at. Pink and toffee skin, buzzed hair against Zayn’s cheek as Liam smears kisses to Zayn’s neck.

“I snuck off when you and Lou were having a smoke. Sort of got me’self ready for you,” Liam admits with a husky, trembling voice.

Zayn breathes against the _‘I got a bad desire I’m on fire’_ while teasing at the rim.

The slick, stretched, hot rim. Liam’s hole flutters like he’s anticipating this and – _fuck_. He _prepared_ for it. Probably slide into the empty showers, one hand against the cold tiles, another working a couple of lube-slick fingers inside. Twisting, teeth biting down on his lip to stop the moans.

(And Zayn is sort of jealous because he’s thought about it too – Liam tightening around Zayn’s fingers. That crease between his brow like he’s overwhelmed, the sharp breaths and a deep voice chanting Zayn’s name.

Working this boy open with three fingers and his jaw sore from sucking Liam off during the in-between’s.)

“So if you wanna,” Liam moans, finally tugging Zayn’s pants down around his thighs. He keeps his eyes low, staring at Zayn’s dick, squirming when Zayn finally presses two fingers in without hesitation.

“If I wanna?”

Liam nods quickly, arching his spine, whining when Zayn goes deep.

Tight, throbbing muscles clinging all around Zayn’s fingers. A hot center like the core of the sun. Liam’s dick dribbling precome all over the dark knickers. The spill of sugary breaths from both of their mouths.

“Please,” Liam keens. He presses his nose to Zayn’s jaw with a furrowed brow. “You could fuck me, Zayn. Just – _c’mon then_ , fuck me.”

Zayn brushes a laugh to Liam’s temple, inching in a third finger, waiting until Liam’s breath stills tight in his chest before twisting them. He knows Liam needs more than some half-arsed prep in a hollow shower. More than a couple of fingers for a few seconds. He knows Liam’s never been with another lad – not like this.

He’s never shoved that sort of trust into someone else’s hands and Zayn considers just fingering him off instead.

Anything other than that weight on his shoulders but –

Liam blinks up at him with pupils blown like big black stars. A sore bottom lip, red from his teeth. His skin still flushed and perfect like this.

“Yeah, yeah,” Zayn mumbles, smiling unevenly for Liam. “Roll over. Be a good lad for me, babe. Let daddy – “

Liam whimpers, clenching unexpectedly around Zayn’s fingers, pushing up into a kiss and back against fingers like he’s strung out on Zayn’s words.

Zayn grins over Liam’s lips, whispering, “Be good for me like before. Make you feel good, alright babe?”

Somewhere between their breaths and another quick snog, Liam wobbles out a noise that’s almost a _‘yes’_ but halfway to a _‘please’_ and it’s all Zayn needs:

The lube under the pillow and Liam turning over on his side. The sharp curve in his lower back as he presses his bum towards Zayn, a hand between his legs (not bothering to wank himself – just to cup over his dick like he’s already so close to coming) while he smiles sheepishly over his shoulder.

“Gonna keep ‘em on for me?” Zayn asks, slicking himself up, grinning at the knickers stretched over Liam’s bum.

Liam gives a small nod, rolling his eyes with a laugh.

“You like ‘em?”

Zayn gives a mild shrug, scooting forward. “Not so bad.”

“Fucking wanker, I can’t believe you’re into such _kinky_ – “

Liam’s words drag off and scatter in his throat when Zayn tugs the rear of the knickers to the side, nudging up against his hole. The head slips in and Liam hisses instantly, scrunching his face into a pillow.

“Gonna take me time,” Zayn mutters, rubbing a sweaty palm over Liam’s hip.

He can feel Liam holding his breath, his muscles tense all over. It makes the push difficult but Zayn waits. He dots kisses under the nape of Liam’s neck, into that wide space between his shoulder blades. Fingers glide over Liam’s ribs – thick guitar strings and hollow spaces.

“Easy,” he says into Liam’s skin, inching in, “if you _relax_ – “

“Relax?” Liam stutters. “You’re fucking huge – “

Zayn smirks over the top knob of Liam’s spine. “Quit being daft.”

Liam exhales loudly but Zayn feels it immediately – the way he loosens around Zayn’s shaft. The tiptoe of goosebumps over his spine when the burn starts to lessen. He flexes carefully and Zayn kisses the round of his shoulder until he’s pressed all the way in.

Curly, scratchy hairs at the base of Zayn’s dick pressed to Liam’s bum and syncopated breaths with Zayn’s dick completely sheathed.

“Alright?”

Liam gives a slow nod, wiggling, trying to adjust.

(Zayn remembers that feeling – the first time, being _stretched_ and the ache in his gut, the air being knocked out of him after the first thrust. That sore feeling low on his spine and the heat across his skin. Sloppy kisses and terrible coordination and coming while fisting his cheap Power Rangers sheets between his fingers.)

“Don’t rush.”

A soft breath gives way to Liam blinking over his shoulder – wide-eyed again with this awe stretched over his lips.

“Y’can take your time, Li.”

Liam wriggles again before sighing. His forearm twists, all of the muscles strained as he rubs his hand between his legs. He squirms back against Zayn before mumbling, “S’okay. C’mon, babe. I’m ready.”

Zayn swallows back a laugh, nodding. He draws his hips back, keeping his cock halfway buried, before snapping forward. A swaying thrust. The kind of impact Liam can manage through.

Liam whimpers, his head tilting back, his spare hand wrapping in the sheets and that’s it.

It’s all Zayn needs.

He keeps his thrusts lazy and deep, letting Liam squeeze around him. Fingers leave shiny bruises over Liam’s hips, his other arm wrapped around Liam’s chest to keep him close. He feels Liam trying to writhe away every few breaths. It’s amusing, this overwhelmed boy struggling between grinding on Zayn’s cock or wiggling off it.

“Too much?” Zayn wonders.

Liam groans. “No. No, no.”

“But you keep – “

Liam swallows loudly, rocking his hips back to meet Zayn’s thrust. “It’s just,” he moans, bucking back, sucking in quick breaths, “it feels _so good_. And, like. Dunno, man. You’re so deep – feels good.”

“Yeah?” Zayn says, teasing his breath over Liam’s shoulder.

“So full,” Liam huffs, his hand working furiously between his legs, his cock still caught behind the cotton, staining it darker. “So – _fuck_. Right there. Like, I can’t – Zayn I think I might – “

Zayn grins into Liam’s skin. “Yeah?”

Liam whimpers loudly, panting hotly to the _‘tell me now baby is he good to you can he do to you the things that I can’t do’_ in the background.

“Feels like I’m gonna come,” Liam hisses, ducking his head shamefully.

Zayn tucks a few fingers under his chin, lifting it.

“S’alright,” he swears, trying to find Liam’s focus while he dicks into him quicker. “S’cool, Li. Come. Come all over yourself. Be a good babe for me. Be so good – “

Liam chokes off a noise, arching tight like a bow string. His feet scramble over the sheets and Zayn peeks over his shoulder to watch –

Strong fingers rub just under the head of his pulsing dick before Liam starts to come. Lengthy trails of white under his belly. Thick strings squirting from the slit. Clear pearls and thick drops of come sparkling in his foreskin. His achy moans in Zayn’s ears and Zayn keeps going.

He keeps fucking Liam through all of it.

“Better?” Zayn asks, dragging his cock in and out gently now.

Liam gives him a lazy nod, sleepy eyes and an exhausted smile flashing over his shoulder at Zayn.

“Want me to pull out?”

Liam whines, scrunching his brow. He shakes his head, rolling his hips languidly until they catch a rhythm over the sheets.

Methodical thrusts and quiet breaths, Liam’s hole still clenching around Zayn like tiny aftershocks.

Zayn soothes a hand down Liam’s hot chest, across the come, circling fingers around his navel. He tugs at the band of the knickers, snapping it against Liam’s skin, grinning when Liam yelps weakly.

“Asshole,” Liam pouts.

Zayn snuffs a giggle to the nape of Liam’s neck. “Like this? D’you like me fucking you after you’ve come, babe?”

Liam sighs happily, pushing back until Zayn’s nestled deep again.

“I’m being good for you?”

Zayn laughs, knocking his hips roughly over Liam’s bum.

“So good,” Zayn whispers. He licks a quick stripe across Liam’s hot skin – salt and toffee, he thinks – before muttering, “Such a good lad. Want me t’ go faster?”

Liam nods, pulling at the sheets.

“Harder?”

It’s a mewl this time, deep in Liam’s throat, his soaked knickers stretching out again. His dick still glossy with leftover sticky come. Toes curl into the sheets and Zayn bites gently at Liam’s shoulder.

He leaves a mark this time – nothing _permanent_ but –

His heart beats a little too wildly behind his ribs and Zayn presses a hand over Liam’s sternum to find his pulse. The same mad, mad thump. It’s manic. Fucking _ridiculous_ but Zayn loves the effect it has on his body.

This underwater feeling he drowns in while fucking Liam.

He slinks a hand around Liam’s thigh to pull him onto his dick, leaning back to watch the way Liam’s hole squeezes around him, the knickers tugged aside and the image is so aesthetically arousing that Zayn loses his breath.

“Babe,” Liam whimpers, peeling down the knickers this time, wanking himself quickly. “C’mon then. Be good for me, too. Come with me.”

Zayn’s unprepared for the way it lurches through his system. This cry of _‘only you can cool my desire’_ echoing through the room. His hand absently gives a quick smack to Liam’s arse, the shadows peeling over the neon pink handprint left behind before Zayn crowds all around Liam.

“So fucking _good_ for me, Leeyum,” he whispers, staying deep. “Lemme see you come again.”

“Fuck,” Liam breathes. “I don’t know if I can.”

His hand keeps twisting between his thighs, his thumb smearing all the precome over the tip, his legs starting to shake from the exertion.

Zayn hums gently, lips tickled by Liam’s buzzed hair.

“C’mon, be such a good lad,” he murmurs, feeling that curl of lava deep in his stomach, the anticipation spreading. “You can do it. Be a good lad for daddy – “

Liam stretches and yelps, squeezing at the shaft of his prick, panting while Zayn kisses under his jaw. He doesn’t have to do anything else – messy kisses while blinking down to watch Liam spill all down his knuckles. The sheets soaking wet and Zayn scrunches his face, biting his own lip too roughly when he starts to come inside of Liam.

“Liam,” he shivers out, squeezing around this shaking boy, tensing up as he trembles out the rest of his come. “Liam, Liam.”

(he never learned to swim and he fucking _drowns_ in this moment – this almost falling in – )

It takes a few uncoordinated breaths before Zayn can pull out of that warm heat. It’s wet, a squelching _pop_ that siphons an inch of breath from Liam’s chest. Stretching over the sheets, Liam curling into him as he carefully pulls off the condom, trails of come slipping down his softening cock. He ties it off and gives it a weak toss into the bin, exhaling hard.

“I’m – um, Zayn, I’ve – “

Zayn snuffles a kiss to Liam’s forehead, repeats the motion over and over until Liam calms around him.

He drags Liam away from the wet spots, curled at one end of the bed, tangled legs and scratching fingers leaving marks on their skin.

(still not _permanent_ but – )

“Hey,” he mumbles, grinning at the crease between Liam’s eyebrows and the way he’s trying to sink back into that arrogant little grin like he owns it.

(like he fucking owns _Zayn’s heart_ and just became aware of it)

“Stay with me, remember?” Zayn teases and everything along Liam’s bones finally relaxes.

Liam gives a dopey nod and they tangle themselves in the sheets. They let the moon paint their skin and skip sneaking off into the floor’s showers, chatting about their favorite Captain America storylines until they’re too sleepy to stare at each other anymore instead.

 

||

 

Zayn knows he’s late –

Liam had told them six and it’s half seven, the sky already fading away from a ruby-orange into something darker, when he stumbles up to some dodgy pub just off campus. It’s one of those old, smoky places with pool tables and old rock and roll tunes and beer caps all over the floor but Zayn’s not put off by it.

No, he’s still uncertain this is even a brilliant idea because –

Well, it’s drinks with the lads. And Liam’s mum.

The thought kept him in bed for hours, lazily flipping through old literature books and Wonder Woman novels instead of shrugging into a clean shirt and wasting half of his waxy product on his hair.

(Instead, he slinks into a loose tartan shirt that he thinks Liam likes and skinnies and simple trainers with his hair knotted at the top of his head and that vanilla body wash Liam goes on and on about – )

Because it’s _Liam’s mum_. Meeting Liam’s mum ( _thank you Louis_ for emphasizing it, repeatedly, through texts and horrible voice mails all morning) and it shouldn’t be so daunting. He’s met plenty of mate’s mums and he knows how to be polite, he has manners but –

Zayn sucks in a quick breath, itching for a ciggy but he tugs open the pub door and drags his feet inside instead.

He’s expecting half of the team crowded around a small table (because, honestly, the bar is tiny and it’s usually overcrowded on Sunday evenings with townies trying to catch a rerun of some Premier League game over chips and ale) but he only finds Liam and a gentle looking woman.

She’s got choppy blonde hair and vintage glasses and she wears that same goofy smile Liam always does when he’s excited.

Liam stands quickly when Zayn staggers over to the table, a hand on the back of his neck, a shy but crooked grin. Zayn lifts his brow like _‘hello’_ and _‘don’t make me do this alone’_ before biting out a shaky smile.

“Mum, this is – “

“Oh sweetheart, you don’t even have to tell me,” she swoons, wiggling out of her chair before tugging Zayn into a long hug. “I can tell by those _cheekbones_ and all the pictures you’ve sent your sisters. He’s so lovely. Ruth says it’s always _‘Zayn is this’_ and _‘Zayn is that’_ whenever you two chat.”

Zayn buries a quiet chuckle into her shoulder, squeezing her back. She smells like late spring and blooming flowers – the way Zayn imagines all mums smell when you first meet them.

A little something like _home_ , he muses.

In his peripheral, he can see Liam ducking his head, blushing, kicking a chair like he’s been caught.

“He’s lying to them,” Zayn replies playfully, rubbing her back before pulling away. “Um, I’m quite awful.”

“Oh, you’re rubbish,” Karen says with a giggle, swatting at Zayn’s arm. “You and the lads have made my little lion so comfortable. Can’t say I’m terribly put out with the idea he likes being here more than home but.”

Zayn chews at his grin, flashing Liam a shocked look that Liam groans at.

“Mum, please.”

Karen snickers into her hand, waving Liam off. “Sorry, love. Am I embarrassing you?”

“A little,” Liam shrugs.

“Good,” she grins and Zayn feels every stitch of apprehension start to melt out of his system with his next breath.

 

||

 

Karen is ridiculously entertaining in ways Zayn imagines Liam probably is when he’s comfortable around people. She teases old stories about Liam when he was younger, ordering up rounds of strong ale for them without blinking, cupping a hand over Zayn’s on the table to ask all about his life in Bradford.

She listens when Liam finally relaxes, chatting about the team and playing for a university. She squeals over Andy and the awful things he made Liam do when they were tiny teens boxing their way through secondary school.

(And Zayn sits with his chin on his knuckles, trying to disguise the way he fondly watches Liam stuff his mouth with salty chips, flushed all over when Karen talks about Liam being bullied. About his health scares. His first girlfriend and the way he spent a week singing Oasis songs to get over his last breakup.

It’s all so – it’s _captivating_ is what it is. Like a good novel. Liam, this unlikely hero in a story about a world without them. Goofy and nervy but so fucking _confident_ in his skin now.)

“They’re getting pissed without us!” Niall whines when he barrels through the door with Louis and Harry behind him, Andy and Jade trailing in a few seconds afterwards.

“You’re late,” Liam mumbles around his bottle, frowning.

“Oi, Payno, you try getting around campus on these,” Louis complains, dragging his crutches over the old hardwood floors.

Harry yanks out a chair for him, Niall helping him down – both so attentive with smiles and playful hands over Louis’ beanie.

“Healing up?” Liam asks.

Louis gives a thoughtless shrug, stealing chips from the basket. “Doctors say I’ll be out two more matches but I’ll be back in for the London games.”

“Ni is spotting his position until then,” Harry says, sounding overly fond and proud while shrugging an arm around the back of Niall’s chair.

Niall beams, keeping a soothing hand brushing over Louis’ thigh like he’s half-guilty and two-thirds ecstatic.

Louis shoots him a pitiful smile like he’s being forced to give up something he’s worked so hard at but –

Around the edges of those seawater eyes, he looks content. With Niall’s hand on his thigh and Harry already calling over a waitress to order up a cup of Yorkshire tea for Louis – he seems so fucking satisfied.

(Like he’s still the captain and still has the world falling over him, without the jersey and the effort he’s put in to prove everyone has always been wrong about him.)

“You know Tommo will still be barking plays at us on the court from the bench,” Andy laughs, shoved in between Jade and Karen, long arms around both of them.

“Obviously,” Harry grins.

“And you lot better not let me down either,” Louis demands and there’s an echo of laughs in their small corner of the pub.

They share plates, passing them around like a family feast, Zayn leaning back in his chair to watch. Liam’s scooted closer (not too close), nonchalantly smiling at Zayn when no one is watching. Some quietly nervous boy again, his mum across from them, all of his nerves showing under his skin.

Zayn sneaks a hand into Liam’s lap, draining his ale while mindlessly tracing little shapes over the chevrons under Liam’s forearm. A _cure_ , maybe, for the way Liam seems out of place.

Something Zayn wishes someone would’ve given him – a way to feel cocky and comfortable with who he was when his mates were around.

This little reminder that he is _still_ _Liam_ , whether he’s gay or an amazing setter or just some dumb boy who likes reading comic books between course studies.

 

||

 

Harry drags Liam and Niall off to another corner of the pub for a round of sloppy pool. There’s a collection of empty shot glasses all around the table, spilled alcohol leaving puddles everywhere and Jade keeps challenging Louis and Andy to drinking contests they can’t win –

She’s the perfect sort of drunk – brilliant about what she orders and licking salt off Louis’ neck anytime he orders up tequila, smiling languidly when Andy groans at the image.

“Fucking wanker,” he mumbles and it’s not aimed directly at Louis or Jade but Zayn is certain it’s for both of them.

“Another one,” Jade demands, slamming down an empty glass.

Louis’ giggle is contagious as he calls over the waitress, holding up five fingers instead of three because he’s too dizzy to know better.

Zayn grins from his end of the table, his arm resting lazily around Liam’s empty chair

(and, no, he’s not missing that warm body or crooked smile or pink cheeks so _fuck off_ )

when Karen plops down into it, smirking.

She passes Zayn another beer, leaning into him. She clinks their bottles, bright eyes behind her glasses and Zayn feels all of that anxiety wrap around his bones when she says, “He’s always tried but my little bean has never been good at hiding things from me.”

Zayn tips his bottle back, swirling the bitter amber in his mouth. He cocks up an eyebrow when she shrugs.

“He couldn’t hide from me when he accidentally broke my favorite vase or when he snuck out to get drunk after Andy graduated sixth form. He was devastated ‘cause Andy was his only real mate besides Jade.”

Zayn blinks at her, taking another sip.

He believes it – the way Liam is so protective of all his teammates. The way he clings to all of them like tomorrow they’ll ditch him. Like he knows it’s not meant forever. It’s terrifying and something Zayn’s never considered –

Not having this little band of marauders around to piss him off or make him feel like a fucking king instead of some loner.

Weezer is playing happily through the speakers, under the noise of the game and all of the shouting Manchester fans. Zayn taps his foot along to _‘on an island in the sun we’ll be playing and having fun’_ while Karen cuddles in closer.

“And he’s been trying so hard to keep from me how he feels about, well,” she pauses, chasing her sigh with a drink. “He likes lads and I don’t know why he tries to hide it. Why he feels like me and his father aren’t so damn _proud_ of that little boy for just being true to himself.”

Zayn sniffs, lowering his beer. He spins the bottle on the sticky table, blinking over to the opposite end of the room.

To a smoky scene of Liam, with scrunched eyes and a wide smile, laughing at Harry missing another shot. Niall cuddled around shots of whiskey and Liam is so _happy_.

So much like the Liam that Zayn can’t stop thinking about.

“I think it’s lovely that, right here, he feels so much better,” she continues, tipping back her beer. “It’s brilliant.”

Zayn nods slowly, still staring at Liam. Round cheeks and the strong line of his shoulders, the way he teeters from foot to foot to the music – horribly offbeat and laughably adorable with the way he rolls his hips naughtily.

“He’s so important to his dad and me,” Karen sighs, smiling crookedly like – well, _Liam_. She clinks their beers again when Zayn goes for another drink, adding, “And I can tell my bean fancies you. Lots. He’s so head over feet about you, Zayn.”

Zayn barely swallows around the sour beer. There’s this uncomfortable heat in his chest that’s not from the alcohol. He tries ( _horribly_ ) to hide it all from Karen, slouching in his chair, grinning nervously. He sniffs, coughing into his shoulder, looking down at his feet.

“I – I mean, he’s brilliant, really – “

Karen nods, patting his thigh. “If you’re not in love with him, it’s fine. But he means a lot to us, Zayn,” she says, gentle like a proud mum. “So if you don’t love him – it’s alright. But he fancies you to bits. So think about it? I don’t quite know you but I’ve sorted out, from watching you, it’s not out of the question that you might think it too?”

There’s this massive ball in his throat. He refuses to swallow (or breathe), his fingers wiping the condensation from the beer on his jeans. Off instinct, he looks across the room at Liam knocking a ball into a corner pocket, smiling drunkenly.

It’s a repeat in his head – _‘so if you don’t love him.’_

He can’t get it out. He can’t reply to Karen but he lifts his eyes just enough to find her looking affectionate and understanding.

It terrifies him but, somehow, it calms him too.

“Think about it,” she whispers, turning away to order another round for the other three who look blissed out and unaware of the way Zayn is sweating, his leg shaking under the table –

His insides on display.

 

||

 

It’s cold and windy outside when Louis limps out the door, finding Zayn leaning against the building with hot smoke in his throat and a cigarette shaking between his fingers.

“Alright?” he wonders, staggering up on his crutches.

Zayn finally swallows, exhaling a cloud of grey. He peeks up at the sky – black marble and dull. His tongue licks over his chapped lips, the cold sinking into his bones.

He doesn’t give a shit – he can’t be inside. He needs this cigarette and he needs all of these thoughts to separate from his mind.

“I dunno,” he shrugs, breathing out more smoke. “I don’t fucking know.”

“In for another pint?” Louis inquires.

Zayn gives a tense shrug, scowling. “Don’t fucking know. I just can’t right now, mate.”

Louis gives him a small nod, propping against the brick wall, stealing Zayn’s cigarette. He takes a light drag, fucking over all of his rules about smoking during the season and morning jogs and he’s wearing _yoga pants_ in November.

It all sinks in – how different they are now.

How a gang of stupid freshers and volleyball has stripped them raw of the lads they were a few months ago.

“I’m not s’pposed to,” Zayn sighs and Louis passes back his cigarette, being such a brilliant best mate that Zayn’s hand stops shaking when he presses the filter to his lips. “Is it gonna be horrible if I fall in love?”

Louis tips his head back, grinning. He gives Zayn an awkward shrug, still adjusting to the crutches under his arms.

“S’ppose not.”

“But – “

“Malik,” Louis groans, licking his lips. “I’m wearing yoga pants and Niall stole all of my chocolate cereals and replaced them with whole-grain shit. Last week I wore one of Hazza’s stupid shirts to class without realizing it. I broke all me damn rules for them. Who gives a fuck if you fall in love, bro?”

Zayn drags in another mouthful of hot smoke. He keeps it in, carefully flicking off the ash from his cigarette. It’s three-quarters done but he doesn’t want to snub it out. He doesn’t want to go back inside.

“I’ve got plans, man,” he says, low.

Louis nods. “We all do, bro,” he whispers back. “But what if the fucking world has plans for us instead? You gonna take on the world, Malik?”

Zayn chews at his lip and doesn’t respond.

He’s always believed in superheroes and being bigger than the fucking universe. He has a scholarship and a plan but –

“Not without him by my side,” he finally admits, not even bothering to look at Louis.

He finishes his cigarette and they shiver together in the cold until their fingers go numb, not saying a word.

(Zayn thinks he loves Louis even more for that – letting him brood and drown in this _pathetic_ and _predictable_ reality he’s been avoiding.)

 

||

 

Campus is a city of white ash. Thick ivory flurries stick to the ground, ice glistening from the bare tree limbs. It’s everywhere, the belly of winter and a few days before the holiday, Cambridge mostly empty with students catching planes and trains back home after exams.

Zayn kicks at the salt rocks all over the sidewalks, boots scuffed and muddy as he pounds through a cigarette up the pavement. He’s spent a few hours doodling in the library, avoiding drunken texts from Louis, absently thinking about his family and the fairy lights probably hanging from that cozy detached house back in Bradford.

It turns his blood cold and he skips out on studying renaissance authors in favor of shuffling back to his room for a coffee and old X-Men films.

He snuggles into his oversized uni jumper, a ratty beanie covering his hair and ears, sleeves tugged over his fingers to keep warm. It’s a thick hoody, keeping the barest amount of frost from his skin but the hot smoke in his lungs from the cigarette helps.

It always does around this time of year.

The grounds feel so empty, Niall hopping a plane a few hours after their last win over St. Mary’s. Harry’s stuffed him and Louis in cabs back to their own homes, Andy inviting himself in on Jade and Leigh-Anne’s scenic trip back to Wolverhampton for the holidays.

He hasn’t chatted with Liam – not on purpose.

It’s just that – the holiday break and the summer are _Zayn’s_. His peace. His escape from every little detail in life he hasn’t quite mastered.

And he hasn’t yet made enough space for someone else, for an _‘almost in love’_ and a boy he isn’t sure fits into that pocket of his heart.

( _not yet_ )

He’s halfway between the practice gym and his room and this all feels so familiar when he hears the squeak of trainers over the salt pebbles on the sidewalk. His lips twitch into a smirk automatically but he doesn’t turn around.

Not until he can hear Liam’s huffing breaths and that soft _‘hey’_ he always drags out in a wheezing voice like he’s just run a thousand kilometers to get to Zayn.

Zayn spins on his heels, cuddling into his jumper. “Vas happenin’,” he says, trying to shake that stupid crooked grin off his lips.

It sticks like the snow when Liam rasps out a laugh, cheeks blotted pink from the cold ( _and something else_ ), a ruddy nose and bright eyes. It’s old and grey outside but Liam looks like a bloody sun – all caramel glow and stuffed into baggy sweats like a proper sport.

“You’re still here,” Liam says, still struggling for breaths.

Zayn’s laugh comes out in a white fog, a sharp nod when Liam looks abashed.

“You too.”

“Yeah, um,” Liam sighs, dragging a cold hand across the nape of his neck. “My parents decided to drive up to London for the hols this year. Me sisters had work but they’re coming up tomorrow to get me. Christmas down at Knightsbridge and hot cocoas under Big Ben. Pretty sick, right?”

“Pretty sick,” Zayn repeats, chapped lips still aching into a silly smile.

(And this feels familiar too – a smile stuck to his lips even when this boy says something daft or fumbles with his words.)

“I was just,” Liam says, pointing a thumb back towards the gym, looking sheepish, “Coach Paddy is still around. Did a couple of practice sets. Prepping for London in January.”

Zayn nods along, absently letting his cigarette burn down.

“Big matches.”

“Huge,” Liam cheers, all of his anxiousness barely contained under his broad eyes. “Like, I can’t believe it. We’re getting so far in the tournament.”

“Because of you,” Zayn shrugs, chewing his lip. “Done some sick stuff, babe. Really leading the team while Lou is out.”

Liam drags his foot over the ground, broad and strong frame looking tiny, flustered in this haze.

“You too,” he whispers, misty white breath hiding some of his shameless smile. “You’ve had three double-doubles lately. A bunch of assists in that last match.”

Zayn licks the dryness from his lips and his mouth aches to drag into a grin.

“It’s our clumsy defense, man. You had to do a bunch of saves and I was just – “

“You were really good,” Liam interrupts, looking genuine and serious all at once. “I dunno. Looks like all of our practices helped? Getting good at setting, Zaynie.”

Zayn rolls his eyes, flicks away his cigarette to throw a lazy punch at Liam’s shoulder. Liam doesn’t flinch and Zayn scowls teasingly at him until freckling blush takes over Liam’s face. Just a silly kid trying to wear some cocky asshole’s uniform but Zayn likes the way it looks on Liam.

There’s a beat of silence between them, the snow starting up again, dizzy twirling flakes falling heavily around them.

“Thanks for, um,” Liam stammers, taking in a hollow breath. “For the thing with me mum. For being, like. Thanks for – “

It’s ridiculous. It’s bloody insane the way this feeling just takes over Zayn. He’s hot and smothered in this impulse he doesn’t quite understand. It’s a _‘fuck it’_ sort of moment and Zayn careens into it, stepping in close and lifting Liam’s chin with his icy fingers just to snog him.

In the middle of the snowy hurricane on an empty sidewalk but with just enough students still lingering around that Zayn is certain Liam’s going to jerk away.

Except, Liam leans up and moans into the kiss. He squeezes fingers around Zayn’s hips, changing the angle, relaxing.

Cocky, full lips smiling over Zayn’s like he’s owning this absolutely absurd moment in the snow.

“What was that for?” he asks, still skimming his lips against Zayn’s.

Their cold noses brush when Zayn tilts his head. He exhales a little too roughly but the heat in his chest doesn’t subside. It glows brighter.

A cheeky smile twitches over his lips before he replies, “Just wanted to. Merry Christmas, Leeyum.”

His freezing fingers warm up against Liam’s flushed cheeks and they stand like that – in the middle of a blizzard like the world stopped existing ages ago.

“I don’t leave ‘til tomorrow and – “

Zayn rolls his eyes because Liam is so _obvious_. Shy and trying to fit into that confident uniform but not quite yet.

“C’mon, you donut,” Zayn huffs, tangling their fingers between them, tugging Liam up the sidewalk towards his room. “I’ve yet shown you how amazing my Ultimate Spider-Man comics are.”

 

||

 

There’s empty mugs of tea on his desk, a hill of half-read comic books all over his floor and Zayn feels impossibly in love with it all.

Snow sticks to the window, icy portraits on the glass, the world outside gone blank and white. The room is calm and quiet, something Zayn is used to.

The boy under him with his hand in Zayn’s hair and Zayn cuddled to his chest, with Zayn’s eyes closed, listening to this boy breathe is unfamiliar.

It’s bloody wonderful but Zayn can’t say that out loud.

Instead, he blinks up at Liam with his crinkled eyes. His chin is still shiny from the spit and Zayn’s come, a bloody fantastic blowjob that has Zayn’s toes still curling in his socks. It makes Zayn press a smile to the cotton of Liam’s shirt, the thought of the way he ate Liam out afterwards, dragging his tongue over Liam’s hole until he was wriggling and half-pleading for Zayn to _‘stop, go, more, fuck’_ over and over.

He cuddles back down to Liam’s chest, curling an arm around Liam’s ribs, Liam’s free hand on his chest next to Zayn’s head. They wade in the silence, their breathing soft, the snow outside thumping noiselessly against the window.

“For the past couple of years, I’ve heard what a brilliant volleyball player I am. It’s all I’ve heard,” Liam says after a deep exhale. “I practice and practice ‘cause I don’t want to stop hearing it. I want to be the best.”

Zayn keeps his eyes closed, listening. He counts Liam’s breaths – slow, measured beats of his heart.

“But, lately,” Liam pauses, mid-breath, and Zayn soothes a hand against his ribs until he finally exhales. “I can practice at sports. I can practice at studies, too. But, um, I’ve never been great at relationships. I can’t practice falling in love.”

The quiet fits uncomfortably into the room. It feels like Liam is holding his breath again, waiting on Zayn to speak.

He doesn’t.

He keeps rubbing at Liam’s ribs, keeping his eyes shut. Zayn thumbs over Liam’s nipple through his shirt, breathing evenly. He avoids every inch of those three words because he’s not sure.

This isn’t what he signed up for and he’s certain of one thing – it’s not fair to Liam.

“I’m terrible at this,” Liam mumbles.

“You’re not,” Zayn whispers, losing the will to struggle with the urge.

It’s this supernova, this bloody erupting star in the middle of his throat and he can’t shove it down.

He just _can’t_.

“Can’t practice my way through falling in love, Li,” he says, this rasp to his voice like he’s struggling with this – being vulnerable for a boy. For _this boy_ , honestly. “But maybe you can help?”

It’s too quiet, even their breaths just dull whispers. Fingers tighten in his hair before a smile drops over his hairline. He imagines Liam’s cheeks are a bold pink and he feels the race behind his chest before –

“Teach me, babe,” Zayn mumbles.

It’s not sudden or dramatic like he thinks Louis would make it but they exhale together, like they’re shaking the weight off. They’re refusing to be some dumb characters on a cheesy BBC drama. Just two boys – one accepting himself, another accepting he’s not quite planned everything out just yet – stretching over Zayn’s bed and saying everything but what they probably should.

“Stay with me?” Liam says, coaxing a silly grin off Zayn’s lips.

“Pathetic,” he chides but he’s certain it’s meant more for himself than Liam.

And that’s horribly unpredictable.

 

||

 

London is huge and bright this time. It’s daunting. The arena where the matches are held is overflowing, seat to seat, with students wearing colorful shirts and cheering on their schools. Huge courts stacked with dominating teams. Lean and tall players, bulletproof jump serves and overtime matches toppling university after university.

It’s a game of strategies – no, it’s a bloody _war_ of pure luck.

Previous champions fall in the first round without blinking an eye, dragging their trainers across the hardwoods with frustrated tears in their eyes and sore muscles for nothing.

They survive Oxford in four sets, mainly because Louis is better than ever after his sprain. He covers for Andy’s sloppy offense, Niall scrambles across the court like a newborn pup chasing a ball and Zayn sets eleven assists while Liam is in the back court.

It’s a fever-hot rush in their blood, chins knocked high in the air, this cocky little stride about their walks when they watch Oxford stomp off with slumped shoulders and their heads hung low.

They outlast Essex and make it all the way to the final four before –

Nottingham wins in the fifth set. By two points. Just a bunch of upstart rookies who looked just as shocked as Andy and Louis when the match is called.

Two points. An ace serve and a technical error.

 _Two bloody points_.

It takes Zayn three whole minutes to catch his breath and blink everything back into focus – Calum slumped at the bench, crying into his hands. Andy wrapping long fingers into the net, frustration coiling under his shoulders. Luke looking gutted next to Coach Paddy. Niall sat on the floor, a ball at his feet, angry red streaks in his glassy eyes. Harry sniffling into Danny’s shoulder, Louis frozen in the middle of the court, holding his breath.

Liam staring blankly at the other team celebrating.

Zayn’s team of misfit sailors finally stranded at sea – still refusing to wave their white flag after the battle.

 

||

 

The late London sunset reaches over the Thames like wavy tangerine fingers, crystalized marigolds floating on the river.

They watch it from the docks, leaning on the rails, trying to stand a little taller. Just some parade of disfigured soldiers broken by the war.

Cambridge’s ragged volleyball team. _Zayn’s team_. His brotherhood of runts, still smearing tears from their eyes and trying to laugh at the bitter breeze in the middle of January. All of them wrapped in their university jumpers and jeans, shoulder to shoulder, watching the sea with glassy eyes and pink noses.

They pass around cartons of orange juice and a bottle of cheap vodka Andy smuggled all the way to London.

For a celebration toast – not a cure or a way to lick their wounds.

They _survived_. They knocked down giants. A bunch of mavericks made it all the way to London.

Zayn is wedged between Louis and Danny, Liam leaning over his back with his chin hooked on Zayn’s shoulder, cold fingers sneaking under the sleeve of Zayn’s jumper searching for warm skin.

He’s already knocked through two cigarettes, passing his pack around to the others between the vodka and juice. Copper strands of falling sunlight crease over their frowns but they all grunt out a _‘thanks mate,’_ the smoke mixing with their foggy breaths.

Just a gang of broken lads finding their own vice to drown in.

“Fucking sucks,” Ashton exhales.

Another echo of muffled words, a unison of nods and hiccups from the alcohol.

“We’re better than them,” Danny adds, brushing his shoulder with Zayn’s, a quick smile Zayn barely notices. “They just got lucky.”

“Bloody lucky,” Stan agrees, taking a quick swig and an inhale of stiff smoke, coughing. “Bless ‘em. They got us today.”

Niall cuddles under Harry’s arm for warmth and Harry drags a hand over Liam’s shoulder, a helpless little smile and pale streaks down his cheeks from leftover tears.

“Fuck you Nottingham!” Andy howls at the sun, raising the bottle like an angry salute.

The others laugh, still swallowed by their defeat but they’re _trying_.

Louis sighs loudly, stretched over the railing, blinking at the cold water like he just might jump. He might bail on them – a captain abandoning ship before his crew but –

“You lot are gonna be amazing next year,” he says, all of his sharp features softening, lips twisting up into a giant grin. “You’ll be fucking ace. You’re gonna win it all. Just wait.”

They all stay quiet, blinking at Louis like he’s gone mad. Like this was their only chance at being a real team. Bloody superheroes for no one but themselves.

“You’ll do just fine,” Louis continues, standing as tall as he can, elbowing Zayn in the ribs until he can’t help it –

Zayn barks out a laugh of smoke. He tips his head back, knocking shoulders with Louis, draining another swallow of sharp alcohol, ignoring the way it stings all the way down his throat.

“Gonna be the best year yet, right?” he teases, wriggling his eyebrows at Louis.

“Gonna crush ‘em all,” Louis says with a nod and this feels so familiar that Zayn goes warm even against the breeze.

Liquid silver in his blood, the smoke in his lungs, his favorite group of rebels surrounding him.

“Think so?” Liam asks, using the back of his wrist to smear excess orange juice off his distractingly pink mouth, skipping the vodka with a nervous grin.

(Still so new and vulnerable but there’s a hint of that confidence Zayn still hasn’t gotten over.)

Louis gives a sharp nod, stealing Zayn’s cigarette. It sits so casually between his lips, some vintage mobster with his cocky grin and slicked back hair.

“You’ll make me proud,” Louis confirms. “The whole lot of you.”

There’s a disgustingly amusing chorus of fond words thrown at Louis and he sidles up to Stan, standing stiff like some royal king glorified by his subjects.

A captain ( _their captain_ ) who fought a war without surrendering.

Zayn smiles into the sleeve of his jumper while watching Louis. He thinks Louis has finally proven himself.

The fading light brings the world into prospective – the team standing shoulder to shoulder, halfway buzzed on alcohol and cigarettes, grinning goofily at the sky. His boys nudged hip to hip with him and he couldn’t think of another place to be.

(And Liam pressed to his spine, smiling over the fantail just under Zayn’s collar, strong arms wrapped around Zayn’s chest.)

It’s Louis ( _always Louis_ , he thinks, happily) who starts off the hum of something familiar before Niall cackles restlessly, his scratchy voice going low to compensate for Louis’ tenor. Harry joins them, trying to keep in tune, Luke and Ashton swaying while Andy spits out wasted vodka laughing. Danny tosses an arm around Zayn and Liam, hugging closer, and it’s like a hurricane.

Its one massive moment in Zayn’s chest, a caged animal turning in circles, trying to get out.

Their voices are loud and achy from earlier tears as they shout _‘just a small town girl living in a lonely world she took the midnight train going anywhere’_ at the Thames, laughing and snuggling together. It knocks a proper grin out of Zayn, just watching them.

Taking it all in – one last moment with his boys.

One last shout of _‘don’t stop believing hold on to that feeling’_ into the wind, across a throbbing city that can’t contain them.

Zayn’s little band of superheroes.

 

||

 

The gym is empty. None of the team has bothered stepping inside since returning from London. They bury themselves in their classes and every other structure on campus but the gym. It’s easier for them, he’s sure, but he can’t help it.

He stands in the middle of the quicksand waiting for the floor to swallow him up.

Zayn pounds serves into the net, ball after ball. The practice ball cart is nearly empty next to him on the back line but he keeps pulling a new one out, spinning it on his open palm, giving it a lazy toss just to smack it right into the net again. He reaches for another ball without even thinking.

He wants his muscles sore and this throb out of his chest immediately. He’s been waiting days for the sting of that loss to wear off.

Clean trainers squeak over the hardwoods and Paddy clears his throat roughly, startling Zayn, his next serve actually clearing the net this time.

“I don’t ever remember you being this horrible in practice,” Paddy teases, lips twisting into that half-serious, half-placating grin Zayn’s seen a hundred times before.

But it’s never quite been directed at him.

He blinks at Paddy for a moment, shrugging. He’s been trying to remain nonchalant about all of this – the sport, the loss, the absence he knows he’ll feel after a week or two.

Their season is over and it’s the first time Zayn’s ever felt like he’ll be missing out on something because of it.

“C’mon, lad. Set you a few,” Paddy instructs, already pulling up a used ball, spinning it between his massive hands. He’s still grinning at Zayn, a bit fatherly in the way his mouth curls, and Zayn exhales softly before lazily jogging to the center of the court.

Paddy bounces the ball a few times, the sound echoing throughout the gym. Empty bleachers and dimmed lights around them. This place suddenly feeling like an abandoned house. Zayn’s unexpected second home.

“You’ve gotten better,” Paddy says while tosses a ball up at Zayn.

It’s a little more natural now, the way Zayn jumps to set the ball, even hands and fingers brushing the ball in the direction he wants it to fly. Not quite as technical like Liam or as sound as Stan when they do it, but he’s improving.

Paddy smirks a few yards away, already tossing his next ball at Zayn. A back set this time, towards the empty bleaches where Zayn imagines Danny would be waiting with a raised hand, calling for it.

“You’ve been practicing?” Paddy wonders but his smile gives it all away.

He knows Zayn has but he plays it well, raising his brow at Zayn, an expectant look on his face.

Zayn sighs, scrubbing the sleeve of his jumper over his face to clear off the sweat.

“A bit,” he says under his breath.

“A bit,” Paddy repeats with a small nod. He bounces a new ball, lifting an eyebrow like _‘ready?’_ and Zayn gives him a quick nod, stepping back into position.

“I was thinking,” Paddy starts after Zayn’s set the ball right back to him, catching it, “With Stan being done next season, we could change things up some. Maybe another setter on the court with Payne? You could set in the front while Liam plays back row. Fool the defense a bit with you two.”

Zayn shoots him an incredulous look for a brief moment before Paddy’s mouth settles into an even smile.

“You’ve come on a bit this season, Malik. Top form. Bailed out some of the weaker players loads this year,” Paddy explains, palming the same ball. He gives a lazy toss that Zayn spikes over the net without thinking.

Paddy gives a quick snort, an impressed little grin.

“What if we’re shit next year?” Zayn asks, scooping a handful of sweaty hair out of his eyes.

Paddy puffs out his chest some, smirking, looking all the more proud father from across the court.

“We’ve never been shite,” Paddy insists, kicking up another ball. “It’s just an evolution, Malik. Each year gets better than the last. You’ve got ta look at it t’at way.”

Zayn bites over his bottom lip. “We’ll be nothing without Louis and – “

“Tomlinson will be fine,” Paddy grins. “That lad is a genius and the team will miss ‘im, that’s certain. But I’ve got contacts out in Spain and Tokyo, too. He’s been a pain in my arse for four years now and it’s time I return the favor by getting him a gig somewhere else. Maybe he can play for Italy? Dunno.”

Zayn doesn’t know why but he relaxes then. All of the exertion seeps out of his muscles and he feels the twitch of a smile at his lips. He just needs – it’s not that he’s ever really doubted it, but he needs to know Louis will be okay.

That one day he’ll finally catch up with his dream – that little idea he’s been dragging around like a safety blanket since he was a tiny bloke.

“Liam, too,” Paddy adds, throwing Zayn another ball. “He’s got an amazing future, that one. Gonna become massive once he’s outta uni. I’ve already been chatting with a bunch of me mates out in Verona. There’s some proper clubs that’ll help him out.”

Zayn sucks in a hollow breath, oxygen barely making it to his lungs at the thought.

Liam is not meant for this university forever. He has a future and Zayn, absently, wonders if that future leaves him behind for some worldwide career on the court while Zayn still fancies quiet evenings on a bed, thumbing through Iron Man and sipping breakfast tea.

“What about you?” Paddy asks.

Zayn swallows, missing the next ball tossed at him. He rubs at his nose, scuffing the floor with his trainers.

Paddy gives him a rough look like he’s thinking too hard. It’s not indignant and he doesn’t look cross with Zayn but there’s an inch of worry in the crease of his brow that Zayn recognizes.

“Still don’t see it, d’you?” Paddy laughs.

Zayn inhales deep, deflating on the release. “I figured as much. Just not confident enough to realize how good ye are,” Paddy adds, shaking his head. “So much potential, Malik. But you’ll get there. I see a career for you in this. You’ve loads of talent.”

The tickle at the corner of Zayn’s mouth relaxes all of the muscles and he flashes Paddy a crooked grin.

“You’re just trying to build me up,” he exhales.

Paddy gives him a one-shouldered shrug. “Maybe. Or I might’ve gotten tired of yer sorry arse ignoring the fact that you’re simply brilliant as a player. Too lazy but we can fix that.”

“We can?” Zayn asks.

Paddy smiles in that way that’s far from condescending or forced. He’s never been one to openly praise a player, not to their face. He thinks it makes them vulnerable. Or cocky. It’s not his style. He breaks bad habits, studies the game, gives players just enough of a nudge where no one feels completely aware of their weaknesses.

It’s never worked on Zayn – well, not until now.

“Payne’s not the only lad I’ve been chatting up to my mates,” Paddy adds, cocking his lips, kicking one last ball under the net before turning. “Keep practicing.”

Zayn blinks at his broad shoulders, the way he keeps his chin held high even after losing another season.

He walks out of the gym, into the dark corridors towards to the locker rooms and, when he disappears from Zayn’s vision, Zayn finally feels a genuine smile on his lips. He turns on his heels towards the net, bouncing a ball, peering through all of the tiny squares to the other end of the court.

The adrenaline rattles through his blood and all he can think of is next season.

They’ll crush all of their enemies next season.

 

||

 

They’re all stretched across Zayn’s room at the start of spring, the stereo tuned to Harry’s favorite station, cuddled over a landslide of pillows stolen from each of their rooms.

Monopoly sits half-finished on the floor between Niall and Louis, Harry’s head cradled on Niall’s lap and his bare feet resting on Louis’ bum. Zayn has been idly sketching new ink in black Sharpie over Liam’s skin and they’re buzzing because it’s the weekend.

The room stinks of greasy veggie pizza (because Zayn overruled everyone and _it’s his room_ , bloody hell) and there’s a fan ticking away in the corner to keep them cool.

“ _So_ ,” Louis sings, the room sat in silence and acoustic tunes for too long, “I’ve a tryout for a German club in the summer. Reckon I could make a stop in Amsterdam for a few days. You in Horan?”

Niall smirks behind a pair of cheap neon sunglasses, looking half-buzzed on the lukewarm Amstel’s he snuck in with him. He props his feet on a pile of comic books, shrugging carelessly.

“Thought about going home for a month,” he says, pinkish lips shiny from pizza grease. “Haz says he wants to take me backpacking, too. Tour some hostels. Shag our way through the countryside.”

Harry snorts into his forearm when Louis flashes them an annoyed look.

“Without me?” he frowns.

“It was s’pposed to be a _surprise_ , Nialler, you dick,” Harry says, still laughing, smacking Niall’s thigh with a heavy hand.

Niall gives him a quick, nonchalant lift of his shoulders. “Nobody gives a feck.”

Harry scrunches his face instantly but Louis gives them this delighted look, this fond smile. He reaches over the game board and twists his fingers with Harry’s over Park Place while Niall feeds Harry leftover crust.

“How about it Payno?” Louis asks after a beat, shifting around to stare at Zayn and Liam on the bed.

They’re twined around each other like ivy. Zayn’s head is in the crook of Liam’s neck, legs vining together, Liam’s chin on Zayn’s temple, gummy bears spreading out across Liam’s chest. It’s so comfortable and languid that Zayn thinks he’ll never, ever leave this –

His boys and his Liam and this room. Just the five of them, like it’s always been.

“Can’t,” Liam says with a secret smile brushing Zayn’s hairline. “Coach Paddy scored me a chance to play for this Italian club over the summer. Nothing pro or whatever. Just some league for uni students.”

Niall hums happily, Louis blinking at Liam with bright eyes and this small impressed smile he rarely uses for anyone other than Zayn.

“You’re a feckin’ legend, Leemo,” Niall grins and Harry cheerfully nods.

Zayn can feel Liam’s blush without looking. It stains all down his arms in tiny freckles, pink stars over tan skin. Zayn brushes his fingers against the color, up the soft hairs on Liam’s forearm, down to his knuckles just before Liam feeds Zayn another cherry gummy.

“What about you Zayno? Another summer knocking about campus?” Louis wonders, his lips twitched into a knowing smirk.

(Louis is an absolute bastard and Zayn’s favorite person in the entire world – other than Liam)

“Dunno,” Zayn says, shrugging lazily, too content to move about and away from Liam. He thumbs around the battlefield of gummy bears on Liam’s chest, smiling. “S’ppose I wouldn’t mind seeing a little bit of Italy for a few weeks?”

Under the gummies, Zayn can feel Liam’s heart stutter and it drags an almost arrogant lift to his lips.

“Fucking gross,” Harry howls, tilting his head back to laugh.

“Fair play,” Niall snorts.

Louis scrunches his face at Zayn, rolling his eyes when Zayn flips him off.

(They’ll always be nothing but morning jogs and _‘one last fuck of a night’_ and two daft lads navigating their way around all of this – and Zayn’s so grateful for it, even if he can’t say it out loud to Louis.)

When the others are distracted with arguing over properties on the Monopoly board and shouting about who’s going to suck Harry off first later, Zayn crawls a little further up Liam’s chest. He drags his eyes over the fondness in Liam’s lips and the laughter lines around his eyes.

“I love you,” he whispers, just for them, thumbing at Liam’s hot cheek.

Liam grins, the crinkles already etched around his eyes.

It’s not the first time Zayn has whispered it

(That was on his birthday in January and, later, during some silly Valentine’s date Zayn planned out which was more shagging loudly during Batman films and feeding each other cold Indian takeaway from that little restaurant they had their first date at than anything else)

but he thinks Liam appreciates it more and more each time.

He steals a kiss off Liam’s lips, settling back into the crook of Liam’s neck, letting the dull circles Liam’s sketching into his back calm him. He exhales fondly, sleepy eyes blinking rapidly, this room feeling so –

It’s far from _pathetic_ and _predictable_.

It’s definitely like _home_ , Zayn’s new way out.

Between his soft breaths, with Liam’s hand in his hair, he swears he hears a quiet _‘love you too, jaan’_ and Zayn hates himself immediately for ever letting Liam meet his family. For dragging Liam back to Bradford one weekend at the edge of winter and letting his sisters crowd Liam like he was a shiny new toy.

His mum teaching Liam how to cook a proper Sunday Roast in their tiny kitchen and his baba stealing Liam away to show off all of Zayn’s old drawings that he still keeps – pinned to a corkboard in his office with a stack of Zayn’s old essays from secondary school stacked on his desk.

Liam looking lit and buzzing off dopamine for hours afterwards, teaching Zayn all of the words he learned in Urdu from Doniya. Whispering, when they’re cuddled on the ratty couch in Zayn’s old living room, _‘jaan’_ over and over until Zayn was the one blushing.

“What a horrible way to spend a summer,” Louis declares, smiling at the ceiling.

Zayn snorts, nuzzling his nose to Liam’s ribs. His fingers skim over new ink on the inside of Liam’s arm, the _‘I figured it out…’_ Liam had sketched over his veins one drowsy February morning with Zayn nestled in the leather chair next to him.   The tattoo Liam whispered softly to the artist about while the ink dried.

The one for his new team, his brothers, his –

Well, the one for _Zayn_. A permanent mark.

It’s all so dreadful – all the thoughts in Zayn’s head. But he’s certain of one thing –

Next season, he won’t have to anchor himself to a bench with a stack of comics and textbooks just to survive. Or a cigarette after a morning run. He won’t need _‘one last fuck of a night’_ either.

Just his boys, his team, that terrifyingly large court and this boy with sugary pink lips and an _‘I love you’_ on his tongue.

He watches each of them, slipping into that exhaustion, breathing in Liam’s scent before he mumbles _‘stay with me’_ to no one in particular – because it’s meant for each of them.

They’re a permanent mark stained in his heart now.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hopefully you didn't get bored after the first 30K or whatever. I know this isn't going to be everyone's favorite or whatever but I was feeling very self-indulgent. My love for campus life and volleyball sort of took over. Maybe you enjoyed the OT5 stuff though? I hope!
> 
> Thanks to each of you leaving me comments (I read them _all_ ) and kudos and just taking the time to read my stuff. Plus all of the love on tumblr and twitter too! It's been a rough few months but you all make each day worth it. May you all find your happy place in life -- and your _jaan_ too


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